THE   SILENT   DOOR 


THE  SILENT  DOOR 

BY 

FLORENCE  WILKINSON 

Author  of  "Kings  and  Queens," 
"The  Far  Country,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

McCLURE,  PHILLIPS  &  CO. 
MCMVU 


Copyright,  1907,  by  Florence  Wilkinson 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  How  THE  WORLD  MOVES  AT  JOPPA         .  3 

II  PENRITH  HOUSE 13 

III  A  MEMORY 20 

IV  THE  BESOM  OF  DESTRUCTION    ...  25 
V  THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  AND  THE  SULLEN 

INTERLUNAR  CAVE       ...  35 

VI  A  TOADSTOOL  FANTASY            ...  47 

VII  THE  SILENT  DOOR            ....  55 

VIII  WINTER  WEATHER 64 

IX  MR.  BOSCOWAY  DISCOURSES     ...  78 

X  THE  HAUNTING  THOUGHT        ...  85 

XI  A  PASSAGE  PERILOUS       .        ....  98 

XII  THE  FAIRY  VALLEY         .        .        .        .  112 

XIII  THE  HOMEWARD  WAY     ....  136 

XIV  THE  SAD  RETRIBUTIVE  GLOW         .        .  144 
XV  THE  LETTER 157 

XVI  WHILE  THE  FIREFLIES  PLAYED        .        .  158 

XVII  THE  CONFIDANT 166 

XVIII  A  DRIVE  WITH  GRANDFATHER        .         .  175 

XIX  BOOTS  AND  BUNTING        .        .        .        .  188 

XX  THE  BURNING  BUSH        ....  197 

XXI  Miss  LADY 204 

XXII  THE  CONSTANTINOPLE  CLOAK          ,        ,  214 


2138960 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXIII  THE  TRAVELING   LOAF     .                 .  222 

XXIV  THE  NIGHT  TRAIN  AT   PERUVIA       .  229 
XXV  IN  GREENWICH   VILLAGE           .        .  236 

XXVI  FREDERICK  DROLL'S  DESIRE     .        .  248 

XXVII  ANGELA  FIELD            ....  254 

XXVIII  ALONG  THE  RIALTO            .        .         .  262 

XXIX  THE  GAUDENZIO  AND  THE  BEAK     .  268 

XXX  A  POLITE  MAN            ....  275 

XXXI  THE  WOOING  O'T      .        .        .        .  281 

XXXII  THE  PLACE   OF  WHISPERERS    .        .  287 

XXXIII  A  GIFT  OF  PEANUTS           ...  298 

XXXIV  RUE  MAKES  A  FRIENDLY   CALL         .  305 
XXXV  DANAE  AWAKES           ....  318 

XXXVI  IN  SEARCH 328 

XXXVII  BABBIE'S    SUBCONSCIOUS  MIND          .  337 

XXXVIII  THE  SLEEPING  CHILD         ...  342 

XXXIX  THE  ANONYMOUS  MESSAGE         .        .  346 

XL  THE  INTERPRETATION           .        .        .  354 

XLI  A  TRAIN  OF  THOUGHTS      .         .        .  359 

XLII  THE  PHANTOM  BY  THE  FIRE        .        .  362 

XLIII  A  HAUGHTY  SPIRIT  AND  A  FALL        .  368 

XLIV  THINGS  You  SEE  WHEN  You  SHUT  YOUR 

EYES 378 

XLV  RUE  IN  SWITZERLAND           .        .        .  384 

XLVI  THE  PEDDLER  WITH  THE  BOOK          .  390 

XLVII  IN  THE  RED  BUNGALOW      .        .        .  401 

XLVIII  THE  LONGEST  MORNING  THAT  EVER  WAS  412 

XLIX  THE  FATEFUL  HOUR  OF  Two    O'CLOCK  419 

L  CHOOSE  YOUR  TRUE  LOVE         .        .  427 

LI  THE  DOOR  is  OPENEP        ...  433 


THE  SILENT   DOOR 


HOW  THE  WORLD  MOVES  AT  JOPPA 

THE  river  meanders  through  the  valley  and  the 
valley  is  so  narrow  you  can  see  it  is  a  valley. 
It  is  bounded  on  either  side  by  undulating 
ranges.  Two  peaks  mount  suddenly  from  the  billowy  sky- 
line and  rear  themselves  proudly  above  their  fellows.  These 
are  the  Twin  Mountains,  and  one  who  climbs  them  may 
look  down  upon  Joppa  village,  follow  the  windings  of  the 
Jerusalem  river  as  far  as  Pisgah  and  even  farther,  and 
survey  all  the  sweet  country  between,  green  and  fair  like  a 
living  map.  But  if  you  are  a  canoeist  on  a  river,  far  other- 
wise. Your  horizon  is  quaintly  circumscribed  by  silver- 
yellow  willow -trees,  by  evergreen  shades  down  to  the  water's 
edge,  and  you  are  mystified  by  the  river's  serpentine  course, 
being  often  in  doubt  as  to  whether  that  shimmering  loop 
ahead  of  you  belongs  to  the  past  or  the  future  voyaging. 

When  you  are  well  within  the  reflection  of  the  Twin 
Mountains  you  are  in  the  second  pocket  of  an  aquatic  S, 
and  you  must  yet  round  several  more  riparian  flourishes 
before  you  reach  Joppa  village,  whose  proximity  has  al- 
ready made  itself  known  to  you  by  the  ringing  of  the 
church  bell. 

It  is  Saturday  afternoon,  and  the  bells  ring  for  the 
Junior  Christian  Endeavor  Society,  a  notable  weekly 

3 


4  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

gathering  of  infants  to  which  the  saddest  little  scapegraces 
repair,  dispensing  texts  and  discoursing  of  their  souls  with 
comic  gravity. 

Now  you  see  a  maple  grove  on  the  bank  and  two  steeples 
among  the  trees,  a  cluster  of  white  roofs  and  a  little  school- 
house.  Therefore  you  know  a  village  really  exists.  However, 
the  river  winds  and  doubles  on  itself  and  dawdles  delight- 
fully through  the  Hemlock  Wood.  After  you  emerge  from 
the  purple  shades  of  the  Hemlock  Wood  you  float  into 
lily-studded  opens,  and  then  you  see  the  whole  of  one 
church  and  a  red  corner  of  mill,  dilapidated  but  still  useful. 
The  church  is  as  trim  and  white  as  the  mill  is  shambling 
and  florid.  The  church  has  a  colonial  portico,  stalwart  and 
self-respecting;  the  mill  has  a  dilapidated  step  and  bleary 
eye.  Soon  you  paddle  under  the  bridge,  leaving  behind  you 
those  that  stare  and  gossip  on  the  mill  step,  and  exposing  your- 
self to  those  that  draw  the  skirt  and  pointedly  do  not  look, 
on  the  church  stoop.  The  church  entrance  is  called  a  stoop, 
possibly  because  of  its  condescending  attitude  to  passers- 
by.  As  you  slide  under  the  bridge,  you  are  in  the  village. 
There  is  an  old  man  in  a  minute  olive-green  felt  hat  sadly 
out  of  repair,  and  rusty  deeply  corrugated  boots,  fishing 
from  the  bank.  He  looks  as  if  he  grew  there,  just  like  the 
gray  and  knotted  box-elder  tree  beneath  which  he  stands. 
Such  comfortable  weather-beaten  old  men  and  trees  always 
grow  on  lazy  river  edges.  Probably  his  name  is  Loami 
Larrabee.  You  will  at  this  point  pause  on  your  paddle,  and, 
by  way  of  engaging  so  picturesque  an  old  party  in  con- 
versation, ask  him  for  the  name  of  the  village.  It  is  a  kindly 
interest  on  your  part  which  the  picturesque  old  party 


HOW  THE  WORLD  MOVES  AT  JOPPA      5 

seems  not  to  appreciate,  for  he  answers  only  after  a  pro- 
longed silence,  which  reduces  you  to  the  position  of  one 
hanging  on  the  lips  of  royalty.  His  tone  is  not  chatty  but 
restricting : 

"  This  village,  sir,  is  called  Joppa.  " 

If  you  are  gifted  with  a  fair  amount  of  intuition,  you 
know  at  once  that  he  is  one  of  the  respected  citizens  and 
that  his  forefathers  were  among  the  founders  of  Joppa. 
Of  course  you  ask  him  the  origin  of  the  name,  to  which 
garrulity  he  gives  answer: 

"  I  am  unable  to  inform  you. " 

You  feel  distinctly  baffled  and  are  sure  that  he  of  the 
corrugated  boots  and  ancestral  cap,  conceals,  in  patrician 
reserve,  the  derivation  of  the  name.  Notwithstanding  some 
antiquity  of  attire  and  evident  enjoyment  of  a  pursuit  far 
from  feverish,  he  has  impressed  you  as  a  personage  of 
importance.  He  rises  authoritatively  to  points  of  order  at 
school  meetings  and  receives  documents  from  Washington 
concerning  the  cultivation  of  mulberry-trees. 

The  houses  wear  a  learned  air,  like  sculpturesque  tomes 
bound  in  official  white  or  yellow,  their  covers  slightly  ajar, 
but  not  wide  enough  for  the  frivolous  canoeist  to  scan  the 
contents.  There  are  farmhouses  of  self-contained  aspect, 
with  box  hedges  and  guinea-fowl  and  broad  lawn-like 
pastures,  frequented  by  black  and  white  cows  in  attitudes 
of  elegant  meditation.  They  look  like  placid  young  widows 
in  their  second  mourning,  who  have  begun  to  take  interest 
in  the  latest  way  of  wearing  sashes  and  the  cut  of  white 
slippers.  Although  it  is  arrowy  sunset  time  and  the  shining 
cleanliness  of  the  long  street  attracts  you  to  remain,  you 


6  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

continue  your  journey,  for  Joppa  does  not  encourage  the 
transient  mind.  Off  there  behind  a  hilly  apple  orchard 
frowns  the  gray  roof  of  a  house,  somewhat  statelier,  more 
austere,  and  far  more  self-contained  than  its  neighbors, 
even  than  the  house  of  the  box  hedge  and  the  guinea-fowl. 
The  apple-trees  are  of  great  stature  and  declining  age, 
bowed  beneath  the  burden  of  their  years.  Some  of  them 
bend  the  knee  and  some  clutch  the  air.  Others  claw  the 
hillside  with  tenacious  purpose  not  to  be  left  behind.  One 
stands  alone,  folding  its  aged  arms  upon  its  bosom  and  in 
the  hollow  of  its  elbow  thrushes  have  built  a  nest.  This  one 
trusts  to  fate. 

A  loquacious  little  lad,  loitering  by  the  river-bank, 
looking  for  blackbirds'  nests  among  the  reeds  before  he 
calls  the  cattle  to  the  milking,  will  tell  you  that  yonder 
stately  gray  roof  appertains  to  Penrith  House. 

If  you  detain  him  with  an  affable  smile  and  cast  no 
acquisitive  glances  upon  that  rough  nest  among  the  reeds, 
he  will  continue  the  conversation,  "  Dr.  Penrith  lives  there, 
you  know." 

If  your  composure  is  still  unruffled, 

"  Justinian  Penrith, "  he  will  add. 

Then  you  will  stolidly  proceed  to  Pisgah,  none  the  wiser, 
while  the  boy  will  stand  gazing  after  you,  amazed  that  the 
world  can  harbor  such  ignorance  as  yours.  For  it  must  be 
that  you  inadvertently  asked  him,  by  word  or  facial  ex- 
pression, "  And  who,  pray,  is  he  ?  " 

And,  "Who,  pray,  are  you?"  I  ask,  to  display  such 
flagrant  indifference  to  the  world's  roster  of  great- 
ness? 


HOW  THE  WORLD  MOVES  AT  JOPPA       7 

"A  Boarder,  most  likely,"  the  lad  will  exclaim,  in 
friendly  exculpation  of  your  colossal  ignorance. 

Justinian  Penrith !  Exists  there  a  person,  so  little  read, 
so  untraveled,  so  provincial,  who  has  not  heard  of  Justinian 
Penrith?  Justinian  is  a  scholar,  a  theologian,  a  traveler. 
He  has  ridden  on  mule-back  in  the  Holy  Land,  bringing 
back  with  him  pressed  flowers  from  Jericho  and  an  olive- 
wood  paper-cutter  from  Bethlehem.  He  has  in  his  dining- 
room  pictures  of  the  ruins  of  Baalbec,  where  he  has  himself 
stood.  He  has  lectured  learnedly  in  places  as  far  away  as 
Pisgah  village  and  his  lecture  was  full  of  conjectural  sites, 
Assyrian  inscriptions  and  Wady-Els.  He  has  written"  a 
book,  "My  Travels  in  the  ^Egean  Isles,"  and  there  are 
two  copies  of  it  in  Merchant  Burdick's  store  alongside  of 
"Our  best  rubber  boots.  Try  a  pair,"  and  Dr.  Bilgum's 
Blackberry  Bitters.  The  two  copies  have  been  there  many, 
many  years,  while  boots  and  bitters  have  come  and  gone 
and  new  bitters  have  arisen.  He  is  indeed  hidebound  in 
provincialism  who  has  not  heard  of  Justinian  Penrith. 

But  you,  ignorant  canoeist,  you  go  on  your  way,  more 
interested  in  the  probable  bill-of-fare  at  Pisgah  Mountain 
House,  than  in  "  My  Travels  in  the  vEgean  Isles. " 

Some  miles  further  down-stream,  you  may  meet  a  flotilla 
of  pleasure-seekers  of  the  ephemeral  sort  known  as 
Boarders,  that  genus  of  which  you  yourself  are  an  individ- 
ual. They  are  fishing  for  the  wrong  fish  with  the  wrong 
kind  of  bait  on  the  wrong  sort  of  day.  They  are  hallooing 
to  their  comrades  of  the  weaker  sex  who  wish  to  join  them ; 
but  are  at  present  deterred  from  their  design  through 
terror  of  a  couple  of  widow  cows.  They  of  the  weaker  sex 


8  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

are  perched  in  a  fluttering  row  on  somebody's  rail  fence. 
They  will  probably  tear  their  insubstantial  frocks  when 
they  finally  make  the  downward  climb,  if,  indeed,  they  ever 
do  make  it. 

These  people,  said  to  be  play-actors  and  writers,  live 
between  the  Twin  Mountains  in  a  little  bunch  of  houses 
they  have  built  for  themselves.  The  low  house  crown- 
ing that  minor  hillock  is  the  Red  Bungalow.  Each  one 
styles  his  abode,  not  a  house,  but  by  some  outlandish 
title  as  the  Bungalow,  the  Lodge,  the  Cabin,  the  Tepee, 
the  Wigwam.  It  was  evidently  their  aim  each  to  outdo 
the  others  in  that  false  pride  which  is  self -depreciation. 
Hence  the  Bunk  and  to  cap  the  climax,  the  Folding-Bed. 
These  colonists  call  each  other  by  first  names,  effusive- 
ly and  expansively.  Joppa  still  knows  them  as  The  Boarders, 
in  memory  of  the  days  when  they  shared  the  hospitality 
of  the  humbler  and  more  needy  Joppanites.  Tales  could  be 
told  of  those  days,  but  Joppa  is  discreet  and  modulates  its 
utterance.  Only  as  a  rare  treat,  when  a  few  elect  spirits  are 
gathered  together,  is  one  invited  who  can  speak  with 
authority  on  the  habits  of  Boarders.  The  little  children  sit 
in  a  charmed  circle  and  drink  it  in,  so  that  the  legend  is 
likely  to  be  handed  down  to  posterity.  Therefore  a  world 
of  meaning  is  conveyed  by  the  simple  epithet,  "  A  Boarder, " 
and  do  not  you  take  it  too  lightly  if  you  are  relegated  to 
their  class,  for  the  cognate  association  is  heavy  with  sym- 
bolism and  it  may  take  years  to  live  down  the  symbolism. 
Conservative  Joppa,  behind  its  window-blind,  shakes  a 
head,  saying;  "There  go  The  Boarders.  Quick,  child,  if 
you  want  to  see  one. " 


HOW  THE  WORLD  MOVES  AT  JOPPA        9 

Truthful  Joppa  adds,  if  you  are  a  new-comer, 
"  Though  now  they  board  themselves.  Why  ?  Don't  ask 
me,  child. " 

Penrith  House  is  of  a  secluded  habit.  No  highroad 
ventures  to  approach  its  land,  but  a  long  lane  labeled  at 
intervals  Private,  and  in  incontestable  proof  thereof  grass- 
grown  in  summer  and  in  winter  snow-drifted,  breaks  away 
secretively  from  the  parent  highroad  and  finds  an  end  to 
its  wanderings  before  the  wistaria-draped  porch  of  Penrith 
House.  Also  a  little  foot-path,  a  seemingly  aimless  thing, 
born  of  children's  whimsies  and  a  certain  chestnut-tree  by 
the  way,  continues  tremblingly  across  meadows  and  finishes 
its  days  in  peace  by  the  big  lilac-bush  at  the  Penrith  back 
door.  If  you  go  up  Prospect  Hill,  it  seems  that  you  could 
jump  down  directly  into  the  middle  of  Justinian's  rustic 
seat  beneath  his  buttonball-tree,  where  he  himself  may 
be  seen  summer  mornings,  a  lap-robe  across  his  knees,  and 
Josephus  or  the  sermons  of  Bushnell  in  hand.  But  try  the 
leap,  and  if  your  neck  be  not  broken  by  the  Precipice- 
Where-Columbine-Hangs  you  will  land  in  the  lane,  con- 
siderably flustered,  a  gentle  placard  directly  in  front  of  you. 
The  scholarly  script  is  tacked  to  the  trunk  of  a  yellow 
poplar  and  reads,  No  Trespassing  Here.  There  will  be 
small  other  sign  of  human  habitation  and  even  this  warning 
is  blatantly  disregarded  by  wpodchucks  and  squirrels, 
with  whom  the  forbidden  tree  is  a  peculiarly  popular 
rendezvous.  Rue  Penrith  secretly  sympathized  with  them 
in  their  disobedience  of  her  grandfather  and  never  betrayed 
them,  but  always  hurried  her  grandfather  past  the  tres- 
passed-upon  poplar-tree. 


10  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

You  may  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  house's  lavender  facade 
from  the  river-bank  and,  pulling  your  boat  ashore,  decide 
you  will  stroll  up  to  its  hospitable  piazza  for  a  cup  of 
afternoon  tea.  You  will  soon  find  yourself  in  the  midst  of  a 
swamp  and,  if  you  persist,  afterwards  in  a  deceptive  wood, 
the  pleasant  knolls  of  which  are  intersected  by  difficult  and 
boggy  ravines,  with  deep  hoof -prints  engraved  on  their  sides 
where  enterprising  cattle  have  disported  themselves  in 
miry  delights.  Your  cup  of  tea  is  surely  getting  cold  and 
your  social  enthusiasm  is  dampened.  Despite  obstacles, 
there  are  ways  of  reaching  the  Penrith  door,  as  sundry 
swains  who  have  paid  court  to  sundry  Penrith  domestics 
could  tearfully  testify.  They  were  dauntless  ones.  Hardy 
was  the  wight  who  persevered  with  Sunday  nights  in 
winter  time.  Therefore  the  office  of  Domestic  at  Justinian's 
was  not  sought  after  and  those  who  filled  that  office  for 
long  were  of  the  sober  sort  who  had  laid  by  the  vanities 
of  this  world,  such  as  one-handed  Hannah  Mariar  and 
Ellen  of  the  many  husbands.  Adventurous,  indeed,  was 
the  grocer-boy  or  butcher-boy  who  willingly  served  them. 
More  often  little  Rue  Penrith  appeared  at  the  market, 
a  Mexican  school-bag  on  her  arm  and  a  written  order  in 
her  hand  from  Great-Aunt  Serena.  The  order  was  written 
in  purple  ink  with  a  very  fine  pen  on  very  thin  paper  of  a 
transparent  plaid  pattern.  It  began  in  epistolary  style, 
"  Dear  Mr.  Dewsnap, "  for  in  Joppa  there  is  no  distinction 
of  class.  Oral  directions  were  also  given  to  Rue,  but  these, 
for  prudence'  sake,  were  reinforced  by  the  written  instruc- 
tions, Rue  being  of  a  "flighty  and  unstable " disposition. 
The  adjectives  are  Justinian's.  She  was  carefully  enjoined 


HOW  THE  WORLD  MOVES  AT  JOPPA      11 

to  punch  the  steak  with  her  thumb  and  to  "note  the 
resiliency."  Also  to  observe  whether  or  no  the  beef  "be 
striate  or  marbled  with  appreciable  fat."  Such  expert 
tests  Rue  was  loath  to  apply,  for  fear  of  being  laughed  at 
by  Sulky,  the  butcher-boy.  Besides,  when  it  came  to  the 
point,  she  was  a  bit  confused  as  to  whether  "resiliency" 
was  a  favorable  or  unfavorable  sign.  She  preferred  to  trust 
to  luck  and  to  Aunt  Serena's  purple  message,  to  stand  on 
the  sawdusted  floor  lost  in  pleasant  reflections  or  watching 
the  anxious  arid  officious  demeanor  of  those  dogs  who  ever 
haunt  the  purlieus  of  meat-shops  till  Sulky,  with  a  grin, 
handed  her  the  Mexican  bag  and  she  passed  on  to  the  next 
errand.  On  hot  days  she  would  sup  deliriously  from  a  five- 
cent  saucer  of  slushy  ice-cream  at  Uncle  Jupiter's.  He  was 
the  sole  negro  of  Joppa  and  I  can  assure  you  a  person  of 
vast  importance.  On  cold  winter  days  Rue  would  purchase 
a  bun  of  Mrs.  Gideon,  with  the  dignified  air  of  one  who 
spends  monies.  Mrs.  Gideon  baked  loaves  and  pies  for 
improvident  housewives  and  her  red-hot  stove  and  riotous 
kitchen,  full  of  comfortable  cats  and  kittens  and  idle  folk 
on  elastic  errands  was  to  Rue  as  the  Porch  of  Paradise. 
Rue  loved  bigness,  warmth,  riot,  abandon.  Hannah 
Mariar's  kitchen  was  too  tidy  for  perfect  ease  of  mind. 
That  one  hand  of  hers  was  efficacious  as  the  many  hands 
of  Briareus:  more  so,  for  he  was  not,  as  far  as  history 
relates,  of  a  domestic  turn.  Ellen's  kitchen,  she  of  the  many 
husbands,  suffered  from  coal  famine,  for  Ellen  had  learned 
the  most  rigid  economy  from  the  School  of  Slothful  Spouses 
whence  she  had  graduated.  A  cat  was  an  intruder,  kittens 
an  abomination,  a  dog  unthinkable.  But  at  Mrs.  Gideon's, 


12  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

even  the  neighbors'  dogs  flattened  their  noses  against  her 
window  on  meat-pie  days,  and  chicken-Sundays  whole  ca- 
nine processions  gathered  betimes  on  her  ample,  if  be- 
littered,  stoop.  Llandys,  the  Elder's  Newfoundland  dog, 
had  been  known  to  appear  with  a  basket,  a  touching  hint 
against  which  Mrs.  Gideon  could  not  steal  herself.  Sad  to 
relate,  this  instance  of  mendicancy  on  the  part  of  Elder 
Trimble's  dog  was  obscure  origin  of  the  church  dissen- 
sion which  flamed  for  two  years  in  the  peaceful  circles  of 
Joppa. 


n 

PENRITH  HOUSE 

THERE  are  some  houses  that  wrap  themselves 
about  in  unapproachable  loneliness.  Silence 
sits  on  the  threshold,  austerity  encamps  by  the 
fireside,  oblivion  looks  in  at  the  window.  The  presence  of 
children  does  not  enliven  these  houses,  laughter  and  talk 
sound  for  a  space,  die  down  and  emphasize  the  inherent 
loneliness  that  clings  to  the  air.  Children's  playthings, 
children's  footsteps,  come  and  go,  remote,  suppressed 
and  evasive.  Such  a  house  was  Penrith  House,  and  in 
Justinian  Penrith,  theologian  and  lecturer,  was  concen- 
trated the  genius  of  loneliness  and  austerity. 

It  was  a  firm  morning  in  October.  The  sun  filtered 
through  the  purple  shades  of  his  orchard,  golden  leaves 
scurried  across  his  lawn,  but  in  his  library,  among  his 
brown-covered  books,  he  sat,  chilly,  gray-bearded,  hollow- 
eyed.  Opposite  him,  in  a  slippery  horsehair  arm-chair,  sat 
another  man  whose  cheery  complexion  and  glancing  eye, 
as  well  as  the  cut  of  his  clothes,  betokened  a  different 
profession  and  probably  a  city  habitat. 

"Mr.  Bastable,  I  believe,"  said  Dr.  Penrith,  surveying 
the  oblong  pasteboard  in  his  hand. 

"E.  W.  Bastable,  of  Bastable  and  Cosgrove,  42  Wall 
Street,  New  York,"  replied  the  gentleman,  crisply.  "I 

13 


14  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

am  here  at  the  request  of  a  client  —  and  in  the  interest  of 
—  a  child  —  whom  —  as  I  have  understood  —  you  are 
rearing." 

Justinian  Penrith  caught  his  breath  and  leaned  forward 
in  an  attitude  of  armed  attention. 

"  Six  years  ago,  this  child,  then  a  few  months  old,  was 
found  on  your  door-step.  You  have  cared  for  her  ever 
since,  but  have  never,  so  I  understand,  discovered  any 
clue  to  her  parentage."  Mr.  Bastable  paused  and  surveyed 
the  elderly  man  with  keen  scrutiny.  "  Am  I  correct  ?  " 

"You  are  correct,  sir,"  answered  Penrith  hoarsely, 
clearing  his  throat. 

"  The  little  girl  is  named  — "  continued  Mr.  Bastable, 
and  somehow  or  other  his  voice  and  the  gray  face  of  his 
vis-a-vis  reminded  of  the  dissecting  table  and  the  scalpel- 
knife,  "  is  named  — "  he  repeated. 

Dr.  Penrith  laid  his  hand  heavily  on  a  volume  of  Smith's 
"  Bible  Dictionary  "  that  lay  open  at  the  article  Armaged- 
don. 

"Is  named  Rue,"  he  answered,  the  lines  of  his  mouth 
settling  to  rigidity. 

"Rue?"  questioned  the  other,  feeling  for  the  surname 
unflinchingly. 

"  She  goes  by  the  name  of  Rue  Penrith,"  thundered  the 
old  man,  rising.  "  What  other  information  can  I  give  you, 
sir,  or  are  we  wasting  our  time  ? " 

"  I  am  here  to  give  you  information,"  said  Mr.  Bastable, 
coldly  and  courteously,  "and  I  am  acting  purely  under 
the  instructions  of  my  client — " 

"Who  is  he?" 


PENRITH  HOUSE  15 

"  That  must  remain  unknown  to  you.  As  you  will  soon 
see,  it  is  not  pertinent  to  the  present  business." 

"Let  us  get  at  this  business  then,  and  be  done,"  said 
Dr.  Penrith,  with  a  fastidious  enunciation  that  conferred 
dignity  on  his  irascibility.  "  Your  client  is,  I  presume,  the 
donor  of  the  five  hundred  dollars  that  has  come  to  me 
annually  since  the  arrival  of  the  child  —  which  sum,  by  the 
way,  I  have  never  touched." 

Mr.  Bastable's  face  changed  in  expression,  a  slight 
shade  of  surprise  or  contempt  crept  into  the  clear  flat 
eyes.  It  would,  however,  have  taken  a  keen  and  unim- 
passioned  observer  to  discover  that  the  old  man's  state- 
ment was  a  revelation  to  him.  Bastable  had  the  gift,  the 
lawyer's,  the  detective's  gift,  of  salient  silences,  of  gliding 
past  the  shoal  of  a  dangerous  question.  He  followed  Dr. 
Penrith's  question  by  a  question  of  his  own : 

"You  are  sure,  quite  sure,  that  no  clue  has  been  dis- 
covered to  the  child's  parentage?" 

Justinian,  still  standing,  his  hand  in  his  vest,  spoke  with 
the  precision  of  a  scholar,  albeit  his  sunken  eyes  flashed. 

"I  did  not  so  say.  I  said  that  I  had  discovered  none." 

"Well  and  good.  My  client  wishes  me  to  ascertain,  in 
the  first  place,  that  the  child  is  well  and  happy." 

Bastable  glanced  about  him  at  the  austere  appointments 
of  the  library,  the  old-fashioned  secretary,  with  its  labeled 
tiers  of  drawers,  the  engraving  of  Milton  dictating  to  his 
daughters,  the  volumes  of  cyclopaedia  and  of  theological 
reference,  there  were  no  signs  here  of  a  child's  outflowing 
energy,  nor  had  there  been  in  the  somber  hall  into  which 
he  had  been  ushered. 


16  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"She  is  well  and  happy,"  said  Justinian  Penrith  in  a 
dry  mechanical  voice. 

"You  have  received  every  year  for  six  years,"  con- 
tinued Bastable's  grave  even  tones,  "a  certificate  of  de- 
posit in  a  New  York  bank  for  five  hundred  dollars." 

Dr.  Penrith  inclined  his  head.  The  astute  man  of  affairs 
knew  that  he  had  guessed  correctly  as  to  the  manner  of 
the  mysterious  gift,  concerning  which  he  had  previously 
known  nothing.  Here,  at  least,  was  a  new  gleaning  to  be 
reported  to  his  client. 

"My  client  wishes  me  to  ask  you,  Dr.  Penrith,"  the 
even  voice  continued,  "  if  you  will  —  give  up  the  child  ?" 

A  slight  break  hi  the  velvet  voice  attested  to  the  flash 
that  his  words  awakened  in  the  eyes  of  his  listener.  "  She 
will  be  transferred  into  reliable  keeping.  You  will  know 
all  details  later,  as  soon  as  your  provisional  consent  is 
gained.  The  sum  of  five  thousand  dollars  will  be  made  over 
to  you  on  the  day  that  this  —  transfer  —  of  the  child  is  made. 
You  say  that  she  is  a — wan*  —  and  —  practically  nameless." 

"  Sir,  I  have  made  no  such  statement.  She  goes  by  the 
name  of  Rue  Penrith.  The  certificates  of  deposit  have 
remained  untouched  in  my  wallet.  The  money  remains 
untouched  in  the  bank.  The  child  is  mine." 

Mr.  Bastable's  glance  rested  musingly  on  the  old  man's 
threadbare  knees.  Then  it  traveled  to  his  emaciated 
hands  and  the  obliterated  pattern  of  the  upholstery  behind 
his  head. 

"The  money  is  not  a  vital  part  of  this  question,  Dr. 
Penrith.  I  ask  you  once  more,  will  you  accede  to  my  client's 
request  ?  " 


PENRITH  HOUSE  17 

"The  request  is  extraordinary,  unprecedented,"  roared 
Dr.  Penrith,  passionately  oratorical.  "  I  refuse." 

Mr.  Bastable  poised  the  tips  of  his  fingers  and  seemed 
undisturbed  by  his  answer.  Perhaps  it  was  what  he  ex- 
pected. 

"  In  that  case,  I  am  instructed  to  inform  you  —  " 

"  In  God's  name,  an  end  to  this  manner  of  information. 
If  you  have  a  clue  to  the  child's  parentage,  tell  me  and 
leave  me  in  peace." 

"  I  am  instructed  to  inform  you  that  you  will  be  given 
an  opportunity  to  reconsider  this  request,  and  that  any 
reasonable  demand  of  yours  will  be  granted." 

Grim  silence  met  this  statement. 

"  May  I  ask  for  the  privilege  of  speaking  with  the  little 
girl  before  I  go?" 

In  the  interim  of  Dr.  Penrith's  hesitation,  the  voice 
continued : 

"  My  client  takes  a  deep  personal  interest  in  the  child's 
welfare." 

A  silence  fell  between  the  two  men,  and  the  somberness 
of  the  old  house  stood  between  them  like  a  visible  wall. 
Suddenly  through  that  somberness,  that  loneliness,  a  little 
voice  vibrated,  a  child's  voice,  strangely  out  of  keeping 
with  the  gloomy,  book-littered  library. 

"Grandfather,  Grandfather,"  sang  the  elfin  voice, 
"  please  come  here !  Please  come  and  look  at  my  excellent 
decolations." 

Then  a  child  burst  into  the  room,  breathless,  ardent, 
exultant,  with  the  fire  of  artistic  creation  dancing  in  her 
eyes.  She  was  a  slip  of  a  child,  fragile,  dark-skinned, 


18  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

violet-eyed,  exotic,  with  golden  brown  hair  in  a  tum- 
bled mass  around  her  small  golden  face.  Her  slender 
brown  fingers  were  stained  with  plant-juices.  Scraps 
of  flower-petals  and  matted  vines  clung  to  her  hair  and 
person. 

"Rue!"  said  the  old  man  sternly. 

The  child  noted  the  stranger  and  also  Dr.  Penrith's 
reproachful  brow.  She  looked  awed,  but  not  fearful. 

"Please  forgive  me  for  being  so  interrupty,"  she  said, 
"  but,  Grandfather,  I  was  afraid  the  flowers  would  wizzle 
up  or  that  Aunt  Serena  would  ruthlessly  tear  them  down. 
Aunt  Serena  is  so  very  ruthless,  you  know,  Grandfather, — 
and  I  have  decolated  the  banisters  and  the  third  floor 
so  bee-youtifully,  Grandfather." 

She  ended  with  a  pathetic  tremble  in  her  voice.  Her 
manner,  like  her  garb,  was  a  mixture  of  the  quaintly 
decorous  with  the  passionate  and  fantastic. 

"  This  is  Rue,  then  ? "  said  Mr.  Bastable,  putting  out  a 
hand. 

The  child  approached  him  and  shook  hands  gravely. 

"And  why  Rue?"  questioned  Mr.  Bastable.  "Not  for 
Ruth,  is  it?" 

Dr.  Penrith  looked  stern  and  gave  no  answer.  The  little 
child  spoke. 

"  It  is  because  of  the  meadow-rue  that  was  blossoming 
on  our  lawn  when  I  happened  on  the  door-step.  Somebody 
planted  it  there  long  ago,  Grandfather  told  me  so,  didn't 
you,  Grandfather?" 

By  the  clammy  silence  between  the  men  which,  with  a 
child's  unconscious  tact,  she  had  tried  to  mollify,  and  by 


PENRITH  HOUSE  19 

her  grandfather's  darkening  eyes,  Rue  knew  that  her  words 
had  been  unwelcome. 

"  You  may  go,"  said  Grandfather,  coldly. 

Rue  held  herself  erect  and  walked  out  of  the  room, 
without  looking  to  right  or  left,  a  little  mannerism  of  hers 
when  she  steeled  herself  not  to  cry.  It  is  fatal  to  bend  your 
knees  or  meet  a  human  glance  when  you  are  on  the  brink 
of  tears. 


m 

A  MEMORY 

RUE  returned  to  the  freedom  of  her  top  floor. 
After  the  visitor  had  gone,  she  heard  her 
grandfather's  step  patiently  plodding  up  the  two 
flights  of  stairs  that  led  to  Rue's  realm. 

"Oh,  Grandfather,  how  kind  you  are,"  cried  the  little 
girl,  running  down  to  meet  him.  "Now  I  will  show  you 
how  I  have  wreathed  up  all  my  places.  I  made  believe  the 
hall  was  a  fairy  bower  and  you  can  shut  your  eyes  and 
almost  see  the  little  fairies  dancing." 

Rue  had  found  in  the  woods  a  quantity  of  that  delicate 
vine,  galeum,  its  branches  and  tendrils  so  sticky  that  they 
will  cling  to  the  most  uncompromising  surface.  With  this 
and  with  armfuls  of  scarlet  creeper,  of  ragged  bee-balm, 
and  tawny  wild-grape  leaves,  she  had  wreathed  the  ban- 
isters and  newel-posts  that  approached  the  arid  steppes 
of  the  third  floor  at  Penrith  House.  She  had  twined  masses 
of  flowers  around  the  handles  of  the  doors,  and  even  the 
ugly  yellow  step-ladder  that  led  from  the  square  central 
hall  to  the  skylight  in  the  roof  was  glorified  with  white- 
flowering  galeum,  and  childish  bunches  of  lavender  asters 
in  bottles  on  the  steps. 

Grandfather  smiled  at  the  pitiful  bottles  and  the  litter 
of  color  so  characteristic  of  Rue.  Aunt  Serena,  hearing 

20 


A  MEMORY  21 

the  commotion  of  Rue's  self-eulogy  mixed  with  Grand- 
father's tempered  praise,  mounted  the  stairway  and  joined 
the  group.  Rue  led  them  hither  and  thither,  elucidating 
this  and  that  artistic  motif  and  drawing  their  attention  to 
each  unnoticed  nosegay. 

"  And  look,  Grandfather,  at  the  long  grape-vine  between 
Ellen's  door  and  the  West  Room,  and  see  my  paper  dolls 
sitting  and  swinging  on  the  leaves.  How  joyous  they  are!" 

"What  ever  will  Ellen  do  when  she  comes  with  her 
broom  ?  "  reflected  poor  Aunt  Serena.  "  This  is  sweeping- 
day,  Justinian." 

"Oh,  Aunt  Serena ! "  cried  little  Rue,  half  laughter,  half 
tears.  She  looked  to  Grandfather  for  support  and  admira- 
tion. 

"  And  see,  Grandfather,  I  have  slided  a  fringe  of  golden- 
rod  under  the  Shut  Door,  for  it  always  seems  so  lonely  and 
left  out,  and  I  am  sorry  for  it." 

Rue  led  the  way  down  three  little  steps  to  a  wing  of  the 
house,  and  pointed  out  the  golden  dado  that  grew  from 
the  neglected  Door.  But  Justinian  Penrith  did  not  follow 
her.  He  stood  still,  smitten  by  a  sudden  memory. 

"See,  Grandfather,  how  they  look  like  gold  tresses, 
fluffing  out!" 

Aunt  Serena  noted  the  stricken  look  on  her  brother's 
face  and  guessed  at  the  unseen  Presence  that  stood  be- 
side him. 

"Come,  Rue,"  she  said.  "You  had  better  wash  and 
change  your  dress.  You  must  be  tired  after  so  much  tramp- 
ing." 

"No,  Aunt  Serena,"  she  replied,  reluctantly  following 


22  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Aunt  Serena  to  regions  of  cleanliness,  "  I  am  not  tired  at 
all.  I  am  really  very  untired." 

Grandfather  stood  in  the  third-story  hall,  his  head 
sunken  on  his  breast,  reliving  a  scene  of  the  past,  a  strange- 
ly similar  scene.  What  did  the  similarity  mean  ? 

The  years  shrank  backward  and  were  forgotten  as  he 
stood  there,  head  sunken  on  his  breast.  Little  Rue  with 
her  passions  and  tendernesses  and  wildness  was  unborn 
and  undreamed. 

A  girl  stood  beside  Justinian,  a  swaying,  half-blown 
tall  blossom  of  a  girl,  with  a  head  like  ripe  corn.  They  were 
together  in  the  room  that  now  had  been  closed  and  silent 
for  years.  The  girl  had  conceived  a  daring  design  for 
mural  decorations  which  she  executed  on  the  plaster  walls 
of  her  sleeping  chamber.  On  the  opening  day  of  the  "  private 
view,"  Danae  and  her  father  went  arm  in  arm  the  length 
of  the  room,  Danae  pointing  out  the  special  excellencies 
of  her  magnum  opus,  Justinian  with  eyes  patiently  up- 
turned, Aunt  Serena  with  subdued  murmurs  about  the 
"  mess "  of  whitened  footprints  all  over  the  house. 

The  magnum  opus  was  a  frieze  of  embossed  water- 
lilies,  carelessly  slung  in  heroic  dabs,  with  water-nymphs' 
faces  floating  between,  their  swirling  hair  intertwined 
with  the  stems  of  the  aquatic  plants.  The  design  had  been 
sketched  for  Danae,  by  Peter  Kenyon,  a  neighbor's  son, 
who  dabbled  in  rude  sculpture  and  whatever  merit  it  had 
was  in  the  original  flat  design. 

Aunt  Serena  unerringly  picked  out  the  "  queernesses," 
and  asked  the  young  girl  for  prosaic  detail.  Danae  learnedly 
explained  her  ideas  of  ceiling  perspective  and  Michel- 


A  MEMORY  23 

Angelesque  foreshortening.  Dr.  Penrith  showed  a  flatter- 
ing interest  in  the  technique  and  process,  as  Danae  proudly 
set  it  forth,  in  language  learned  in  the  school  of  Peter's 
nascent  genius. 

Justinian  could  see,  even  now,  with  bowed  head  and 
introspective  eyes,  the  tinted  water-lilies  and  the  distorted 
faces  of  the  water-women,  so  out  of  sorts  with  the  un- 
aesthetic  furnishings  of  the  old-fashioned  chamber,  the 
ingrain  carpet,  and  the  walnut  bedposts.  He  heard 
Danae's  blithe  voice. 

"They  are  rather  splendidly  done,  don't  you  think, 
Father?" 

Aunt  Serena  followed  in  the  rear,  still  looking  labor- 
iously ahead  to  the  next  scrupulous  house-cleaning  with 
this  additional  excrescence  to  be  removed.  Thus,  with 
entirely  inoffensive  intention,  she  spoke: 

"  I  suppose  we  can  get  them  off,  Danae,  but  it  will  take 
a  very  thorough  scraping." 

"Oh,  Aunt  Serena,"  cried  Danae,  half  laughter  and 
half  irritation.  Then,  just  as  little  Rue,  years  later,  by  the 
grape-vine  swing  at  Ellen's  door,  she  looked  to  the  man 
for  support  and  admiration. 

Justinian  smiled  critically,  stroking  his  aquiline  nose. 
His  daughter  hung  on  his  lips,  for  his  compliments  were 
like  a  rare  cordial,  dealt  out  by  the  drop  but  deliciously 
stimulating. 

"  I  cannot  deny  that  you  have  achieved  a  —  striking  — 
result,"  he  gave  forth,  with  that  air  of  weighing  his  words 
which  imparted  to  them  such  value.  "It  really  might  be 
much  worse,  much,  much  worse." 


24  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

It  was  high  praise  from  Justinian,  for  he  was  indulgent, 
sadly  indulgent  to  this,  as  it  proved,  the  last  fad  of  Danae's 
that  Penrith  House  was  to  shelter. 

This  incident  happened  on  one  of  the  harmonious  days, 
when  Danae  and  her  father  were  not  at  war.  The  crisis 
finally  came  when  words  were  spoken  that  both  would 
have  liked  to  forget.  Those  who  knew  Justinian  Penrith 
in  his  gracious  aspect  as  host  or  lecturer  would  not  know 
him  as  fulminator  and  rhadamanthine  judge.  His  aspect 
then  was  beyond  belief.  Danae  took  the  bit  in  her  teeth 
and  ran  away.  It  was  a  running-away  from  which  there 
was  no  returning. 

Justinian  closed  and  locked  the  door  of  the  decorated 
room.  He  sat  down  to  his  books  and  pretended  to  forget. 

But  every  year  when  the  meadow-rue  came  up  on  his 
lawn,  Justinian  passed  wrathful  days  and  sleepless  nights. 
His  daughter  Danae  had  set  it  out  years  and  years  before. 
She  had  transplanted  it  with  her  own  hands  from  the 
river-edge  where  it  was  flourishing  among  its  untamed 
fellows.  But  to  think  that  she  herself  had  long  since  dis- 
appeared, no  one  knew  where,  while  the  wild  rue  of  her 
planting  waxed  great  and  plumed  out  every  July  into  tall 
moonshiny  splendors! 


IV 
THE  BESOM  OF  DESTRUCTION 

IT  was  some  years  after  Danae  flung  out  of  the  door 
that  Rue  had  alighted  on  the  door-step.  Justinian's 
hair  whitened  and  his  walk  grew  very  careful.  Aunt 
Serena  knit  many  scarlet  afghans,  folded  them  in  lavender- 
ed  sheets  and  put  them  away  in  the  dark  store-room. 
Justinian  prepared  a  series  of  lectures  (never  publicly 
given),  on. 

"The  Plain  of  Esdraelon  from  the  Days  of  Megiddo 
and  Armageddon  to  the  Present  Time." 

Otherwise  no  events  worth  recording  took  place  except 
that  Aunt  Serena  was  cured  of  the  permutation  habit. 
Always,  when  she  dusted,  was  her  brother's  attention 
distracted  from  notes  on  Tanaach  or  Megiddo.  He  watched 
her  dusting  operations  with  the  keenest  anxiety. 

Aunt  Serena  was  a  very  thorough  duster.  Her  method 
of  being  orderly  was,  as  he  often  informed  her,  to  find 
for  each  object  a  new  and  undreamed  of  place,  a  distress- 
ing method  this  to  scholars  of  conservative  mind.  Not 
that  Aunt  Serena  was  radical  in  any  of  her  daily  habits, 
except  this  immemorial  dusting  habit.  She  could  not 
conceive  of  a  thorough  house-cleaning  which  should  not 
also  mean  a  thorough  rearrangement. 

To  wake  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  to  reach  for  the 

25 


26  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

glass  of  water  you  have  carefully  set  on  your  writing-desk 
in  the  northeast  corner  of  the  room,  and  to  stub  your  bare 
toes  upon  an  inexplicable  article  of  furniture,  to  bump 
your  forehead  against  the  corner  of  something  else  and 
knock  over  several  bottles  therefrom, —  means  that 
yesterday  was  Aunt  Serena's  sweeping-day  and  that  the 
writing-desk  is  no  longer  in  the  northeast  corner  of  the 
room,  but  for  Order's  sake  has  been  transferred  to  the 
southwest  corner  and  that  the  dressing-table  now  stands 
where  was  formerly  empty  space.  Such  occurrences  one 
cannot  easily  forget. 

"A  disturbing  element,  a  sadly  disturbing  element!" 
murmured  Justinian,  as,  chilled,  wide-awake  and  still 
thirsty,  he  groped  his  way  through  the  permutations  of 
his  furniture  to  the  refuge  of  bed. 

This  tendency,  if  so  mild  a  word  may  be  applied  to  so 
strong-developed  a  habit  as  that  of  Aunt  Serena's,  was 
finally  suppressed  by  a  system  original  to  Justinian  Pen- 
rith.  I  commend  the  system  to  all  elderly  gentlemen 
inconvenienced  by  over-thorough  dusting  on  the  part  of 
conscientious  housekeepers. 

In  the  first  place,  there  had  been  many,  many  arguments, 
in  which  Justinian  came  off  logically  triumphant  and 
Aunt  Serena  hopelessly  worsted,  with  as  many  fallacies 
pin-pricked  in  her  arguments  as  there  were  little  holes  in 
the  stockings  which  she  was  at  the  time  darning.  But, 
strange  to  say,  to  be  repeatedly  convicted  of  fallacious  self- 
defense,  does  not  prevent  one  from  again  falling  into  the 
self-same  misdeeds.  It  was  only  when  Justinian  required 
from  Aunt  Serena  an  itemized  written  statement,  daily, 


THE  BESOM  OF  DESTRUCTION  27 

of  the  redisposition  of  his  personal  effects,  to  be  posted 
freshly  each  day  in  each  room  of  the  house  where  he  might 
happen  to  be,  that  the  noxious  tendency  was  abated. 

Callers  at  Penrith  House  ( they  were  few  and  far  be- 
tween )  were  puzzled  by  such  bulletins  as  these: 

ARTICLES  TRANSFERRED.  DATE 

ARTICLE         FROM  TO 

Green  Student  Lamp  Piano  Mahogany  Table 

Red  Worsted  Afghan  Couch  Dining-Room  Settee 

Baize  Ottoman  West  corner  of         East  corner  of  fireplace 

fireplace 
Jeremy  Taylor's  "  Holy         Center-table  Top  of  Book-case 

Living  and  Dying" 

Vase  of  raper  Lamp-        Top  of  Book-case        Center- table 
lighters 

(Signature)    SERENA  PENRITH. 

"It  is  my  undeniable  prerogative,"  said  Justinian,  "to 
know  where  in  my  own  domicile  my  own  possessions  are. 
It  is  Hay  prerogative  not  to  be  compelled  to  make  an  ex- 
haustive search  for  them  every  time  I  rise  from  my  chair." 

When  he  spoke  in  this  tone,  with  the  brown  canvas  eye- 
shade  tipped  up  on  his  forehead,  forming  an  artificial 
edifice  of  brow  beneath  which  his  eyes  gloomed  terribly, 
Aunt  Serena  knew  the  situation  was  not  to  be  trifled  with. 
It  was  exceedingly  troublesome  to  her  to  make  these  lists 
and  even  more  troublesome  to  him  to  refer  to  them,  but 
the  practice  was  faithfully  kept  up  on  both  sides  till,  after 
a  number  of  days,  Aunt  Serena  succumbed  and  solemnly 
agreed  to  let  his  things  remain  "in  statu  quo"  (  Justinian  ) 
till  death  should  them  part.  Perhaps  she  was  hastened  to 
this  concession  by  the  ostentatious  manner  in  which  Jus- 
tinian consulted  the  bulletin  when  Eulalia  was  present. 
Eulalia  was  the  Swedish  "  incumbent,"  ( Justinian  )  -a 


28  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

simple  and  wondering  soul,  to  whom  in  a  strange  land 
all  things  were  strange  and  no  monstrosity  impossible, 
but  withal,  so  faithful  and  cleanly  that  Aunt  Serena  was 
desirous  to  retain  her.  Eulalia  had  looked  frightened  when 
Justinian  accused  Serena  of  palming  off  upon  him  yester- 
day's bulletin  for  to-day's. 

"Fetch  me  the  bulletin  from  my  bedroom." 
Eulalia  understood  only  the  words  bulletin  and  bedroom 
and  these,  combined  with  Justinian's  Jove-like  scowl  and 
Aunt  Serena's  consternation,  conveyed  the  idea  of  fright- 
ful catastrophe  for  which  she  herself  was  guiltily  responsi- 
ble. Although  it  could  not  have  been  in  a  waking  moment 
that  she  had  pent  a  bull  in  a  bedroom.  When  she  was 
required  to  fetch  that  mischief-making  bull  from  the  bed- 
room to  the  dining-room,  she  threw  her  apron  over  her 
head  and  wept,  and,  thus  weeping,  fled  to  the  kitchen. 
During  the  interval  that  Eulalia  wept,  the  contract  was 
made,  Justinian  abolished  the  bulletin  system  upon 
his  sister's  promise  to  abjure  forever  all  permutations. 
She  remained  in  all  other  points  a  thorough  house-cleaner, 
and  when  she  set  out  to  sweep  the  Sky-Chamber,  as  a 
preliminary  step  she  had  the  stable  windows  washed. 
This  was  the  caustic  manner  in  which  Justinian  satirized 
her  far-reaching  preliminary  measures. 

Meanwhile,  Justinian,  in  his  secret  heart,  never  ceased 
for  one  moment  to  think  about  Danae  and  to  look  daily 
for  her  return.  She  would  come  running  to  his  arms  in 
the  old  flighty  girlish  way,  crying  to  be  forgiven!  It  did 
not  occur  to  him  that  perhaps  she  also  waited  for  some 
one  to  come  to  her  and  ask  to  be  forgiven.  Sympathetic 


THE  BESOM  OF  DESTRUCTION  29 

Joppa,  meeting  Justinian  on  his  daily  journey  to  the  vil- 
lage post-office,  chatted  gently  with  him  on  the  weather 
and  the  tomato-blight  and  Canaan,  the  neighboring 
village,  bought  a  copy  of  "My  Travels  in  the  ^Egean 
Isles."  It  was  the  most  delicate  tribute  of  condolence 
that  they  could  have  devised. 

It  was  well  for  Justinian  that  one  harvest  of  trouble  was 
garnered  before  a  new  crop  was  sowed.  Rue  Penrith  devel- 
oped, as  she  grew  old  enough  to  lay  her  hands  on  life,  what 
Justinian  called  "a  fatal  facility  for  damage."  She  left 
behind  her  in  the  house  a  trail  of  devastation.  Hers  was 
no  ordinary  infant's  dabbling  in  mischief.  She  reveled  in 
floods  and  crashes  and  the  crack  of  doom.  To  break  and  to 
spill  were  her  specialties  though  she  was  by  no  means 
averse  to  annihilation  by  process  of  fire  or  steel.  Her  blue 
beatific  gaze  as  she  lay  in  her  crib  before  dressing-tune 
veiled  a  multiplicity  of  mischief,  and  when  she  cooed  to 
'  herself  in  the  tub  she  was  probably  organizing  the  campaign 
of  the  day.  There  was  no  use  in  concealment  of  valuables 
or  imprisonment  of  the  child.  It  only  added  to  the  zest  of  her 
game.  Without  aid  of  matches  or  paper-lighters  to  set  fire 
to  a  basket  of  shavings  by  the  dining-room  grate,  is  a 
brave  feat  for  a  baby  of  two  years. 

After  the  fire  was  extinguished,  the  dining-room  rug 
thrown  outdoors  to  subside,  the  scorched  table  linen  folded 
into  the  work-basket  for  darning,  and  Rue's  own  person 
anointed  in  oil  and  bandages,  Rue  lay  and  despite  her 
wounds,  laughed  contentedly. 

"Pitty,  pitty!"  she  cooed,  "Rue  make  fire  one  more 
time. " 


30  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  I  insist,  Justinian,  that  she  be  thoroughly  spanked, " 
said  Aunt  Serena. 

"  Never  fear,  she  will  not  do  it  again, "  said  Justinian, 
meekly  assorting  a  pile  of  dismembered  manuscripts  that 
Rue  had  pulled  from  the  desk  before  the  possibilities  of 
the  fire-play  burst  upon  her.  "  Did  you  ever  know  her  to 
repeat  a  mischievous  performance  ?  " 

There  are  in  this  life,  it  is  true,  so  many  fruitful  oppor- 
tunities that  a  baby  of  spirit  needs  not  to  harp  on  the  same 
old  theme.  Aunt  Serena  thought  she  detected  a  note  of 
foolish  admiration  in  Justinian's  voice  as  he  hung  above 
the  scorched  and  crooning  child.  Rue  always  showed 
discretion  in  selecting  for  her  purposes  the  objects  of 
greater  value.  How  infinitely  more  interesting  to  snip  or 
deface  this  week's  rather  than  an  older  paper.  She  was 
insulted  at  the  offer  of  a  kitchen  potato-beater,  instead  of 
Grandfather's  gold  watch  to  use  as  a  battering-ram. 

Justinian  departed  from  the  system  under  which  he  had 
schooled  Aunt  Serena,  and  alas!  failed  to  school  Danae. 
He  laid  no  commands  and  framed  no  rules,  for  they  only 
invited  transgression. 

"  Besides  that, "  he  said,  "  it  is  not  so  much  naughtiness 
in  Rue  as  ingenuity. " 

"  Have  I  been  naughty  to-day,  Aunt  Serena  ?  "  The  child 
would  wistfully  ask,  when  Aunt  Serena  denied  her  the 
good-night  kiss. 

"No,  my  dear,  only  ingenious,"  the  poor  lady  would 
reply,  dealing  out  an  unmerited  kiss  on  the  waiting  up- 
lifted forehead. 

Grandfather  kissed  her  lips  and  kissed  her  twice. 


THE  BESOM  OF  DESTRUCTION  31 

Justinian  found  a  descriptive  epithet  for  Rue,  the  felicity 
of  which  almost  compensated  for  the  havoc  she  wrought. 
The  Besom  of  Destruction  aptly  fitted  her  character,  and 
with  all  due  reverence  to  its  Biblical  origin,  Justinian 
applied  it  in  this  modern  instance.  Rue  did  not  know  what  a 
Besom  was.  Yet  she  accepted,  after  some  natural  shrinking 
from  the  sonorous  appelation,  the  fact  that  she  in  her 
person  exemplified  Isaiah's  grim  prophecy : 

"  I  will  also  make  it  a  possession  for  the  bittern  and  pools 
of  water;  and  I  will  sweep  it  with  the  besom  of  destruction, 
saith  the  Lord  of  Hosts. " 

The  pools  of  water  were,  of  course,  the  marsh-holes 
between  the  humps  on  the  way  to  Mr.  Larrabee's  pond. 
The  bittern  she  had  not  become  acquainted  with,  but  she 
would  have  a  sisterly  feeling  for  that  bittern  if  ever  he 
should  turn  up.  She  wondered  how  soon  he  would  appear 
above  the  horizon  of  her  life.  Often  she  looked  for  him 
when  she  was  gathering  swamp-flowers,  green  orchids  and 
lady's-slippers  in  the  humpy  swamp.  She  had  also  a  friendly 
feeling  for  satyrs  and  dragons,  because  they  were  mentioned 
in  a  similar  connection. 

"Owls  shall  dwell  there,  and  satyrs  shall  dance  there  and 
the  wild  beasts  of  the  islands  shall  cry  in  their  desolate 
houses  and  dragons  in  their  pleasant  palaces. " 

The  owls  she  had  frequently  heard  to-whooing  at  night 
from  the  mysterious  wood  across  the  brook.  The  other 
beasts  were  perhaps  dwellers  in  the  island  of  the  Jerusalem 
river.  She  had  never  been  blessed  by  a  visit,  but  doubtless 
there  were  concealed  in  its  jungles  of  lady-fern  and 
orange  milkweed,  wild  beasts  of  divers  sorts. 


32  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Sunday  morning  before  breakfast  was  a  good  time  to 
practise  dancing  like  a  satyr,  in  preparation  for  the  day 
when  the  prophecy  should  be  fulfilled  and  the  bittern, 
the  satyrs,  and  she,  the  Besom,  should  meet  in  that  pleas- 
ant palace.  Engaged  in  this  occupation  Aunt  Serena 
once  found  her,  the  bureau  glass  pushed  back  and  held 
in  place  by  a  hair-brush  that  Rue  might  survey  the  evolu- 
tions of  her  own  unashamed  nakedness.  The  hair-brush, 
as  applied  by  Aunt  Serena,  soon  performed  a  different 
service,  a  service  not  connected,  I  grieve  to  say,  with  Rue's 
long-delayed  coiffure.  What  use  was  there  in  confiding  to 
such  a  shallow  understanding  as  Aunt  Serena's  the  whys 
and  wherefores  of  life  ?  That  the  miry  boots  and  smeared 
frocks  with  which  Rue  frequently  came  home  from  her 
wanderings  were  as  a  martyr's  garments  in  the  cause  of 
demonstrating  Bible  texts  or  in  the  exegesis  of  prophecy 
would  hardly  have  appealed  to  Aunt  Serena.  Yet  on  one 
memorable  occasion  when  Rue  penetrated  more  deeply 
than  usual  into  the  forbidden  forest  it  was  because  she 
thought  she  heard  a  dragon's  cry.  The  sound  proceeded 
from  a  clump  of  cat-tails.  The  reason  that  the  mud  upon 
her  person  was  so  liberal  in  quantity  and  impartial  in 
design  was  that  she  ran.  If  one  gallops,  it  naturally  follows 
that  one  falls.  Is  this  not  so,  reader  ?  A  high  rate  of  speed 
is  incompatible  with  caution.  It  happened  as  follows: 
She  thought  she  heard  a  dragon  cry.  Toward  his  direction 
she  walked  for  purposes  of  investigation.  She  was  sure 
she  heard  a  dragon  cry.  In  the  opposite  direction  she 
galloped  for  purposes  of  safety.  These  details  are  hard  to 
explain  to  great-aunts. 


THE  BESOM  OF  DESTRUCTION  33 

"  Rue, "  said  Aunt  Serena,  with  all  the  solemnity  that  a 
moral  catastrophe  deserves,  "  You  must  never  run  again.  " 

"But  I  didn't  run,  I  galloped."  Rue  was  acquiring 
Grandfather's  verbal  punctiliousness. 

"  You  must  never  gallop, "  insisted  Aunt  Serena. 

"  Never  ?  "  lisped  Rue,  awed  by  that  dreadful  word. 

"  Never, "  said  Great- Aunt,  with  the  consistence  born 
of  slender  imagination. 

"  Is  that  a  rule,  Aunt  Serena  ?  " 

"Yes,  that  is  a  rule.  At  least,  you  must  never  run  (or 
gallop)  without  asking  me  first. " 

"  But  s'pose  I'm  a  long  way  from  home  and  I'm  going 
to  be  late  for  supper  ?  " 

"  You  mustn't  be  a  long  way  from  home.  You  must  play 
around  the  house  like  other  good  little  children. " 

"  But  s'pose,  Aunt  Serena,  there's  a  mad  bull  after  me, 
and  I  need  to  run  and  I  might  get  dead  before  I  had  time 
to  ask  you.  And  anyway,  I'd  have  to  run  and  ask  you. 
And  I  might  just  as  well  gallop  away  from  the  bull  without 
asking,  don't  you  think,  Aunt  Serena?" 

"  What  bull  are  you  talking  about,  child  ?  Do  stand  still 
one  minute  while  I  finish  parting  your  hair. " 

A  few  years  after  the  windfall  of  Rue,  Justine  arrived,  but 
not  quite  in  the  same  fashion.  So  proper  an  infant  as 
Justine  naturally  chose  a  more  conventional  method.  In 
the  first  place  she  was  born  of  human  parents  who  lived  in 
a  house.  She  was  Justinian's  grandniece  and  was  christened 
as  nearly  as  might  be  after  her  distinguished  uncle.  She 
had  the  broad  forehead  and  contemplative  eye  of  a  true 
Penrith.  She  took  the  vicissitudes  of  life  in  the  spirit  of  a 


34  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

philosopher  and  accepted  her  orphaned  state  and  her 
adoption  by  Uncle  Justinian  with  a  noble  fortitude  that 
wavered  but  once  on  the  railroad  train  to  Joppa,  when  her 
stick  of  striped  candy  fell  out  of  the  window.  Her  suffering 
on  this  occasion  was  augmented  by  seeing  a  small  boy  at 
the  Pisgah  Junction  pick  up  the  striped  and  sugary  tribute 
and  transfer  it  in  its  entirety  to  his  mouth.  Nevertheless, 
Justine  arrived  at  Penrith  House  in  a  tranquil  frame  of 
mind,  feeding  a  rubber  baby  with  bits  of  cookie,  a  quality 
of  offspring  and  a  form  of  sustenance  as  satisfactory  to 
Justine  as  they  were  contemptible  to  Rue. 

Leisurely  Joppa  noted  and  pitied  from  afar.  Never 
before  had  sober  elderly  people  been  afflicted  with  such  a 
plague  of  girl  infants. 

Aunt  Serena  was  Aunt  Serena  to  both  the  children,  but 
Justinian  was  Grandfather  to  the  one  and  Uncle  to  the 
other,  which  was  always  a  mystery  to  Rue.  Nothing  seemed 
a  mystery  to  Justine.  Whatever  happened  happened  quite 
as  a  matter  of  course.  The  only  queerness  was  that  anybody 
thought  anything  was  queer.  It  certainly  is  no  queerer,  if 
you  come  to  think  about  it,  to  have  a  sun  that  rises  in  the 
east  and  sets  in  the  west  than  the  reverse,  or  a  sun  that 
should  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  sky  all  day  long. 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  AND  THE  SULLEN 
INTERLUNAR  CAVE 

Up  hither  like  aerial  vapors  flew 

Of  all  things  transitory,  vain,  when  sin 

With  vanity  had  filled  the  works  of  men; 

Both  all  things  vain  and  all  who  on  vain  things 

Built  their  fond  hopes  of  glory  or  lasting  fame 

Or  happiness  in  this  or  the  other  life. 

All  the  unaccomplished  works  of  nature's  hand. 
Abortive,  monstrous  or  unkindly  mixed, 
Dissolved  on  earth,  fleet  hither  and  in  vain 
Till  final  dissolution,  wander  here. 

THE  "Sullen  Interlunar  Cave,"  (so  styled  by 
Grandfather)  was  Rue  Penrith's  peculiar 
habitat,  where,  as  the  artists  would  say,  she 
expressed  herself  through  the  medium  of  matter.  In 
the  West  Room  she  slept  or  sat  and  studied.  She  was 
obliged  to  keep  it  orderly,  to  dust  it  daily,  to  hang  up 
her  frocks  by  the  hangers,  each  on  the  proper  hook,  to 
line  up  her  shoes  in  a  row  consistently  mated  on  the  closet 
floor.  But  the  Sullen  Interlunar  Cave  was  all  her  own.  In 
it  she  had  full  sway  and  neither  immaculate  Aunt  Serena 
nor  the  ubiquitous  Cousin  Justine  aged  three  were  privi- 
leged to  enter. 

"Let  the  child  have  a  room  in  which  to  store  her  im- 

35 


36  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

pedimenta, "  decreed  Grandfather,  and  the  Cave  fell  to 
her  lot. 

This  unfortunate  chamber  had  long  been  under  the  ban 
for  human  occupancy,  as  the  sun  entered  it  only  by  chinks, 
so  closely  had  the  huge  wistaria-vine  grown  across  the 
windows,  clasping  one  of  the  blinds  tight-shut  with  its 
strong  arms.  Justinian  would  not  have  the  wistaria  cut 
away  or  trimmed,  for  its  luxuriance  was  one  of  the  wonders 
of  Joppa  village.  To  Rue  the  Cave  meant  liberty,  fortune, 
self-respect.  To  it,  as  to  a  Limbo,  fleeted  the  unending  and 
ephemeral  procession  of  her  treasures.  Aunt  Serena  re- 
garded them  coldly  or  with  the  suspicious  eye  of  the  fervid 
housewife.  Grandfather  smiled  ever  so  gently  and  framed 
ambiguous  compliments.  Justine  clamored  to  be  admitted 
and  when  Rue  was  hard-hearted  had  to  be  consoled  with 
gross  consolation  from  the  pantry.  To  Rue  the  Sullen 
Interlunar  Cave  was  as  Aladdin's  treasure-house. 

The  sacred  Guest-Chamber  touched  the  sphere's  antip- 
odal opposite.  It  represented  the  highest  criterion  of 
taste  in  Joppa.  Its  chaste  loveliness  appealed  to  Rue  in 
her  conventional  and  decently-frocked  moods.  It  was 
separated  from  the  rest  of  the  second  floor  by  an  individual 
flight  of  steps.  The  approach  was  rendered  in  a  further 
degree  ritual  and  impressive  by  a  small  square  hall,  smoth- 
ered in  Cimmerian  darkness  except  when  one  of  its  four 
doors  was  opened.  The  four  doors  opened  in  as  many 
different  directions,  and  if,  by  a  conspiracy  of  indiscreet 
persons,  they  should  be  opened  at  one  and  the  same  time, 
those  indiscreet  persons  would  be  engulfed  in  a  howling 
tempest  of  draughts.  For  this  reason  the  hall  was  familiarly 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  37 

entitled  the  Grotto  of  the  Four  Winds.  One  of  the  four 
doors  gave  on  the  back  stairs.  These  back  stairs,  communi- 
cating only  by  unexpected  doors  and  circuitous  entries 
with  the  open  prosaic  every-day  rest  of  the  house,  were  like  a 
secret  but  navigable  channel,  an  underground  railway,  a 
series  of  mountain  passes,  that  made  possible  for  Rue 
many  mysterious  exits  and  entrances.  She  preferred  them 
to  the  broad  and  exposed  highway  of  the  front  stairs, 
where  she  was  liable  to  be  waylaid  by  Justine  with  reiter- 
ated demand  upon  Rue  to  tie  hair-ribbons,  to  build  a 
blockhouse,  or  to  assist  in  a  doll's  toilet.  Rue's  dolls  sprang 
fully  dressed  from  the  womb  of  her  imagination  and  required 
neither  frocking  nor  unfrocking.  A  string  to  indicate  the 
waist,  a  similar  arrangement  for  the  neck,  charcoal  for  the 
eyes,  and  the  most  unpromising  textile  became  a  princess. 
Justine's  demands  were  generally  supported  by  a  sym- 
pathetic voice  from  the  library  or  dining-room,  Justine, 
notwithstanding  a  porcelain  innocence  of  mien,  subtly 
chose  for  her  demands  the  politic  time  and  place. 

Sometimes  Rue  was  attacked  in  the  rear  by  Grand- 
father's voice  from  his  study,  inquiring  into  the  illegitimate 
use  of  her  morning  hours.  Morning  hours  in  the  Penrith 
household  were  devoted  to  ascertaining  ( in  Latin  )  the 
habits  of  two  worthies  yclept  Caius  and  Balbus,  and  to 
determining  the  respective  division  of  apples  between  a 
certain  John  and  Henry.  It  was  also  probable  that  even  in 
the  afternoon  when  one  had  rightfully  fallen  heir  to  hours 
of  liberty,  Aunt  Serena,  ambushed  in  the  sewing-room, 
would  prick  up  her  ears  at  the  sound  of  suggestive  creaking 
on  these  fateful  front  stairs.  In  that  case  the  opportunity 


38  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

would  be  utilized  for  help  in  ripping  or  pulling  out  of 
bastings.  Therefore  Rue  preferred  the  seclusion  and 
immunity  of  back  stairs,  though  lonely,  steep,  plebeian. 
By  them  one  could  penetrate,  unknown  and  unmolested, 
from  the  base  of  supplies  in  the  pantry  to  the  impregnable 
fortress  of  the  Sullen  Interlunar  Cave. 

The  Guest-Chamber  had  three  windows,  all  of  them 
framed  in  lace,  and  in  the  setting  of  those  loops  of  snowy 
spider-web  the  view  from  the  windows  took  on  an  other- 
world  charm.  There  was  green  decorated  china  on  the  wash- 
stand,  on  the  bureau  a  bead  pincushion  with  velvet  center, 
and  a  velvet  slipper  worked  in  beads  as  a  receptacle  for  the 
happy  guest's  trinkets.  On  each  side  of  the  pincushion 
stood  two  tall  frosty-pink  perfumery  bottles  about  which 
still  lingered  the  aroma  of  past  days  when  they  had  doubt- 
less been  full  to  the  brim  of  aromatic  incense.  Even  now  it 
was  a  privilege  to  pull  out  the  stoppers  and  sniff  mightily. 
If  one  sniffed  mightily  enough  one  could  detect  a  faint 
memory  of  perfume,  like  the  murmur  of  the  sea  in  a  big 
conch-shell.  There  were  two  tiny  shelves  hah*  way  up  the 
mirror-frame  that  could  be  reached  by  standing  on  the 
edge  of  the  half -open  bureau  drawer,  —  a  forbidden  means 
of  ascent  to  Olympus.  Up  there  were  a  lava  match-safe 
and  a  lava  vase,  —  ochre-brown  lava  horses  prancing 
down  the  side  of  Vesuvius.  The  floor  was  spread  with 
fragrant  matting  of  a  greenish  hue,  and  there  was  a  green 
carpet  chair  splendidly  fringed  in  which  Rue  delighted  to 
sit.  It  inspired  her  most  exalted  and  virtuous  contempla- 
tion. There  were  three  pictures  on  the  walls,  also  an  un- 
failing source  of  inspiration,  the  more  so  that  through  the 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  39 

long  winter  months  when  the  Guest-Chamber  on  account 
of  its  rigorous  climate  became  inaccessible,  these  pictures 
were  unseen,  half -forgotten,  only  to  burst  upon  one  in  the 
lawless  days  of  spring-cleaning  with  the  freshness  of  peren- 
nial youth.  The  pictures  were  called,  —  they  belonged  to 
the  good  old  days  when  pictures,  as  well  as  books,  bore 
titles,  —  Crossing  the  Brook,  Flora  and  Georgiana,  and 
Eternity. 

The  first  picture  represented  a  barefoot  lass,  carrying  a 
bundle  of  fagots  on  her  head,  stepping  from  stone  to  stone 
across  a  shallow  foaming  stream.  A  boy  led  her  by  the  hand. 
The  fagots  on  the  head,  the  kerchiefed  bodice,  the  fantastic 
skirt;  the  boy's  tasseled  beret  and  smock  open  at  the  throat, 
—  all  suggested  to  Rue  she  knew  not  what  of  mystery, 
enchantment,  a  different  life.  The  simple  engraving  in  its 
crisscross  wooden  frame  was  to  her,  travel,  foreign  lands, 
romance,  her  first  trip  abroad.  The  boy  and  girl  became 
companions,  part  of  her  life.  Were  they  brother  and  sister  ? 
What  were  their  names?  Where  were  they  going?  Why 
the  fagots?  Why  barefoot?  What  liberal-minded  great- 
aunt  allowed  those  untrammeled  costumes?  These  were 
fascinating  themes  for  meditation.  Rue  thought  she  should 
like  the  two  children  because  they  were  crossing  a  brook, 
and  brooks  were  Rue's  delight.  Would  they  like  her,  too  ? 

Next  in  order  was  Flora  and  Georgiana  and  it  always 
stirred  the  query:  Which  was  Flora,  which  Georgiana? 
A  fat,  lazy  little  girl  sat  in  bed  against  a  downy  pile  of 
pillows.  Her  hair  hung  in  ringlets  over  her  bare  neck  and 
arms.  Her  one  garment  was  what  Aunt  Serena  called  a 
"  shimmy, "  otherwise  known  as  chemise,  the  like  of  which 


40  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

for  lavish  flummery  Rue  Penrith  had  never  seen.  A  dog 
with  melting  eyes  and  floppy  ears  put  a  pair  of  pleading 
paws  on  the  counterpane,  while  the  selfish  and  lazy  little 
girl  held  her  bowl  away  from  him  and  supped  tranquilly. 
Belaced,  beringleted,  languid,  stingy,  she  was  certainly 
a  much  over-dressed,  though  only  half -dressed,  young 
person.  We  will  leave  it  to  an  impartial  public  if  any 
intelligent  critic  could  decide  which  was  Flora,  which 
Georgiana.  This  picture  fascinated,  yet  irritated.  Rue  was 
sure  that  Georgiana  —  or  was  it  Flora  —  was  the  kind  of 
little  girl  that  could  not  climb  fences  and  was  afraid  of 
chestnut  burrs.  Also,  she  would  curl  her  lip  at  the  sugges- 
tion of  toads  and  rag-dolls.  She  would  consider  it  ignominy 
to  go  to  Loami  Larrabee's  for  milk,  with  a  tin-pail  dangling 
merrily  from  her  arm.  The  tin-pail  must  not  dangle  merrily 
on  the  homeward  trip,  or  it  will  leave  a  trail  of  white 
spots  behind  it,  like  fairy  signs,  telling  you  which  way  the 
enchanted  doe  has  gone.  But  in  the  kitchen,  Aunt  Serena 
will  raise  her  eyebrows  as  she  pours  out  the  diminished 
quart.  This  vesper  service,  which  Grandfather  embellished 
in  Rue's  mind  by  calling  it  the  Milky  Way,  was  an  important 
item  on  Rue's  daily  schedule.  It  was  sometimes  irksome, 
but  not  without  its  opportunities  for  widening  the  social 
circle  and  for  meditation  or  adventure  along  the  road. 
The  little  lady  in  the  chemise  hemmed  pocket-handker- 
chiefs for  recreation  and  spent  her  spare  time  in  counting 
ribbons  and  in  stringing  blue  beads.  Rue  had  met  the  type. 
She  was  sure  that  Flora,  —  or  was  it  Georgiana  —  was 
disagreeable.  Behold,  she  was  unkind  to  her  poor  dog, 
with  the  hungry  eyes  and  meek  ears.  Still,  the  picture  had 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  41 

interest.  It  revealed  a  condition,  a  stratum,  a  social  set, 
where  one  wears  lace  chemises,  sleeps  on  banks  of  pillows 
and  breakfasts  luxuriously  in  bed. 

The  third  picture,  Eternity,  was  the  most  cabalistic  of 
the  three.  It  did  not  tell  its  story.  There  was  no  possible  con- 
nection between  title,  subject  and  inscription.  For  it  had 
an  inscription,  engraven  underneath,  as  if  to  clarify  and 
elucidate,  and  the  inscription  added  the  last  entangling 
thread  to  the  hopeless  maze.  The  woman  in  the  pillared 
garden,  draped  airily  as  only  angels  should  go  clad,  the 
butterfly  alight  on  her  large  bare  arm,  the  awed  and  won- 
dering look  in  her  uplifted  face,  and  the  verse  engraven  on 
the  lower  margin  —  were  all  profoundly  hieroglyph. 

Any  one  alone  of  the  three  mysteries  Rue  might  have 
comprehended.  She  had  not  reached  that  advanced  intel- 
lectual state  where  literary  obscurity  soothes  and  satisfies. 
The  verse  ran  as  follows :  — 

Immortality  o'ersweeps 

All  pains,  all  tears,  all  time,  all  fears,  and  peals 
Like  the  eternal  thunders  of  the  deep 
Into  my  ears  this  truth  —  Thou  liv'st  forever. 

As  you  will  see,  between  legend,  woman  and  butterfly 
no  coherent  story  was  told.  Rue  vaguely  perceived 
that  here  was  something  a  symbol  of  Something  Else 
that  vastly  imported.  She  felt  shivers  run  up  and  down 
her  spine. 

Aunt  Serena  hung  this  classic  lady  over  the  wash-stand, 
because  she  best  fitted  that  decollete  epoch  in  one's  toilet. 
Aunt  Serena  had  a  fine  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things. 

During  the  spring  and  summer  months  was  the  gala 


42  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

season  for  Penrith  House  and  the  Guest-Chamber.  Many 
people  at  that  time  remembered  Joppa  who  were  immersed 
in  forgetfulness  during  the  feverish  opera  season.  Stately 
aunts  and  firm-lipped  uncles  bore  down  upon  Joppa,  with 
attendant  trains  of  much-labeled  valises,  over  which  Rue 
pondered  as  over  the  hieroglyphs  of  kings  of  Abydos. 
There  were  bearded  young  men  who  frisked  a  daisy  at 
the  buttonhole  and  made  eyes  at  Mrs.  Gideon's  pretty 
daughter  in  Sunday-school.  There  were  young  ladies  with 
swishing  gowns  and  rings  on  their  white  fingers  who  re- 
cited Aux  Italiens  and  said  with  a  sigh : 

"What  a  romantic  little  spot  this  is!" 

And  they  had  not  found  the  really  romantic  places  at 
all,  like  the  Hemlock  Wood,  but  all  day  they  sat  on  the 
bench  under  the  buttonball-tree  and  chatted  with  Mr. 
Boscoway,  the  Visiting  Gardener  and  called  him  "  quaint. " 
Or  they  said  to  Grandfather,  with  languishing  sympathy: 

"  But  how  lonely  you  must  be  in  the  winter,  Dr.  Penrith ! " 

Most  frequent  and  most  lingering  were  urbane  gray 
gentlemen  who  discussed  learned  matters  with  Justinian, 
such  as  the  site  of  Kadesh  Barnea,  who  pounded  the  table 
when  they  talked  and  waxed  eloquent  over  Welhausen  and 
Delitzsch.  Grandfather  was  always  on  the  other  side  and 
the  veins  on  his  temples  bulged  at  their  "preposterous 
heterodoxy."  On  more  placid  occasions  they  harked 
back  to  youthful  days  and  descanted  with  gloating  laughter 
over  memorable  frolics.  Rue  knew  them  all  by  heart,  that 
New  Year's  Day  when  Grandfather  and  three  other  young 
bloods  hired  the  rickety  wagon  and  the  disreputable  mule, 
and  attired  in  their  gorgeous  holiday  raiment  hitched  up 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  43 

and  paid  their  devoirs  to  all  the  notable  belles  of  town; 
that  glorious  day  in  college  when  a  holiday  was  wrenched 
from  the  grudging  faculty  by  the  mock  death  and  funeral 
of  a  Napoleonic  spirit.  Little  Rue,  sitting  on  an  ottoman 
with  hands  clasped  and  adoring  eyes,  glowed  at  the 
thought  of  Grandfather's  ancient  bravado. 

Sueh  flashes  of  wit  vibrated  across  the  table ! 

"  What  animals  grow  on  vines,  Penrith  ?  " 

"Gray  apes.  Haw-haw-haw!" 

"  Pea-nut  discouraged. " 

Rue  did  not  always  understand,  but  just  the  same  enjoyed 
and  hoarded.  It  was  not  till  years  afterward  that  the  real 
point  of  some  of  these  hoary  tales  dawned  upon  her.  There 
were  other  mystic  scraps  also  well-remembered,  for  the 
unintelligible  has  a  haunting  persistency  for  a  child. 

Two  of  the  urbane  gray  ones  sat  on  the  rustic  seat  be- 
neath the  buttonball-tree.  Rue,  unseen  by  them,  played 
house  under  the  Norway  pine  whose  noble  branches  swept 
the  ground.  Justinian  went  to  the  house  in  search  of  a  book 
of  reference. 

"  Beautiful  prospect, "  said  one,  striking  an  appreciative 
cane  toward  the  blossoming  hillside  below,  and  a  blue  hint 
of  river. 

"If  man  could  live  on  fair  prospect,"  said  the  other, 
digging  a  cynical  heel  into  the  ground  and  ruining  the  star- 
of-Bethlehem  Rue  had  taken  pains  to  set  out  the  day 
before. 

"  Sadly  broken, "  remarked  the  first  one. 

("  Sadly  indeed, "  thought  Rue,  in  pity  of  the  lovely  dead 
flower.  ) 


44  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

A  gently-modulated  cane  was  swung  toward  the  green 
blind  door  behind  which  Justinian  had  just  disappeared. 

"How  long  ago?"  asked  the  ruthless  one,  with  peculiar 
lack  of  relevance.  He  wastefully  tore  off  the  netted  silk 
sheath  encasing  a  buttonball. 

"Ten  years?"  ruminated  he  of  the  cane,  describing 
thoughtful  circles  in  the  air. 

"Ah,  ten  years.  How  time  flies!"  cried  the  other,  still 
incoherent,  but  suddenly  sentimental. 

"Left  behind,"  commented  he  of  the  cane,  digging  a 
round  grave  for  a  beetle  the  other  had  crushed.  He  pointed 
suggestively  to  the  books  that  belittered  the  rustic  bench. 

("  How  dull  they  are,"  thought  Rue.  "  Grandfather  will 
return. ") 

"  It  might  not  have  been  except  for  —  you  know." 

(No,  she  did  not  know.  How  disjointed  their  utterances!) 

"A  tragic  occurrence!"  went  on  the  fragmentary  voice. 

(Did  he  mean  the  beetle  or  the  star-flower?) 

"Most  inexplicable.  A  charming  creature." 

(No,  June-bugs  are  not  charming,  but  they  have  a 
right  to  live,  in  their  own  kingdom.) 

"What  was  her  name?"  He  did  not  perceive  that  the 
other  had  found  pathos  of  his  own  in  the  flight  of  time. 

"  Her  name  ?  Oh,  you  are  speaking  of  Justinian's  — " 

"  Exactly.  A  charming  creature,  was,  at  least." 

Both  of  them  shook  their  heads. 

"  This  little  girl, —  do  you  find  that  —  she  —  perhaps  — 
or  am  I  mistaken  ?  A  —  resemblance  ? " 

The  courteous  cane  groped  delicately  for  a  certain  tuft 
of  pollen-purple  orchard  grass.  Rue  became  aware  that 


THE  GUEST-CHAMBER  45 

they  were  speaking  of  people  and  were  afraid  to  say  it  out 
loud.  The  green  door  opened  and  Justinian  appeared,  a 
heavy  tome  beneath  each  arm. 

"Ah,  Penrith,  we  were  just  saying  what  an  Arcady  you 
have  made  for  yourself,"  roared  he  of  the  destructive  cane. 
"  Far  from  the  madding  crowd,  eh  ?  " 

"  Beneath  the  grove  of  the  Academe,"  beamed  the  other, 
waving  large  hypocritical  hands  over  the  books  that  lay 
on  the  rustic  bench  and  the  locust  stump. 

"  Don't  you  believe  them,  Grandfather,"  burst  out  Rue, 
conscious  only  of  double-dealing  which  she  must  right, 
and  outraged  beyond  the  possibility  of  silence.  "They 
have  been  saying  no  such  things,  Grandfather,  but  queer, 
awful  beginnings  they  didn't  dare  to  finish,  about  — " 

Rue's  attitude  as  she  crept  on  all  fours  from  under  the 
Norway  pine,  needles  thick-strewn  in  her  hair  and  her 
cheeks  gummy,  was  far  from  heroic.  Notwithstanding, 
her  face  and  voice  were  epic. 

"Enough!"  said  Grandfather,  sternly.  "You  may  re- 
pair to  your  chamber,  Rue,  and  remain  until  I  summon 
you.  Employ  your  time  usefully,"  he  added  with  terse 
significance. 

A  wise  employment  of  time  meant  the  perusal  of  English 
classics  or  committal  to  memory  of  new  and  ever  new 
declensions.  But  that  afternoon  seemed  to  favor  a  liberal 
interpretation  of  the  phrase.  Rue  executed  upon  large 
sheets  of  brown  wrapping-paper  a  Hogarthian  series  of 
pictures  which  she  entitled,  "  The  Paths  of  Deseetfulnes." 
In  these  drawings  were  vaguely  limned  the  features  of 
the  urbane  gray  ones,  prowling  as  wolves  in  sheep's  cloth- 


46  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

ing.  Justinian  was  an  elderly  lamb,  if  the  bull  may  be 
pardoned,  nibbling  the  leaves  of  learned  books,  and  she 
herself,  in  the  shape  of  an  angel  of  light,  shone  throughout 
the  series.  In  the  final  cartoon,  wings  grew  from  her  shoul- 
ders, she  had  shed  her  checked  apron  and  earthly  braids 
of  hair,  and  mounted  a  heavenly  stairway  that  she  set  on 
the  bodies  of  her  dead  enemies. 


VI 
A  TOADSTOOL  FANTASY 

TO  the  Sullen  Interlunar  Cave  went  all  trophies 
from  the  outland,  fireweed,  yards  of  sticky 
dodder-vine,  masses  of  rank  fringed  orchids, 
barbaric  bunches  of  brown-eyed  Susans.  Rue  loved  pro- 
fusion and  color  in  masses.  She  had  not  yet  arrived  at  the 
Japanese  idea  of  a  single  flower  in  a  vase.  She  regretted 
Aunt  Serena's  callousness  to  beauty  that  enabled  her 
gladly  to  forego  the  feasts  she  would  have  provided  for 
every  chamber  in  the  house.  Spoils  from  the  outland  were 
to  be  carefully  tended  by  the  obtainer  of  such  trouble- 
some mementos.  Thereafter,  the  Cave  was  alternately 
radiant  with  fresh-gathered  bloom,  or,  on  days  when  other 
avocations  were  paramount,  maladorous  with  long-neglected 
vegetation.  It  was  at  one  of  these  decadent  epochs  that  the 
Cave  was  visited  by  Aunt  Serena  and  forthwith  a  new 
edict  went  forth: 

"No  more  messes  of  weeds  shall  be  brought  into  this 
house." 

Opprobrious  epithets  aside,  the  decree  was  heartless  and 
unjust,  the  spirit  that  prompted  it  being  manifested  by 
the  words  "messes"  and  "weeds."  This  ukase  was  issued 
between  the  departure  of  the  urbane  gray  ones  and  the 
arrival  of  Aunt  Elizabeth  and  Uncle  Rodney.  The  two 

47 


48  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

gentlemen  departed  on  the  day  succeeding  the  Norway 
pine  episode.  Their  farewell  hand-shakes  were  tremen- 
dously prolonged  and  hearty. 

Aunt  Elizabeth  is  known  to  the  world  at  large  as  Mrs. 
Rodney  Dove.  She  lived  in  Boston,  or  as  she  would  have 
expressed  it,  "she  moved  in  the  best  circles."  It  must  have 
been  of  necessity  that  Aunt  Elizabeth  moved  in  circles, 
for  she  was  not  sufficiently  agile  to  describe  a  revolution 
more  abrupt.  "  Moving  "  is  also  an  apt  phrase  to  describe 
her  ponderous  and  majestic  locomotion.  Aunt  Elizabeth's 
heavy-cheeked  face  was  lighted  by  small  brown  eyes 
with  which  she  transfixed  the  hearer,  pinning  him  to 
the  wall,  as  it  were,  while  she  seared  his  memory  with  her 
much-emphasized  and  often  rehearsed  narrations  and 
theories.  Her  narrations  always  supported  a  theory.  Her 
theories  always  required  a  narration. 

When  the  telegram  came,  abundant  was  the  joy  in  the 
Penrith  household.  Aunt  Serena  profited  greatly  by  Mrs. 
Dove's  superior  knowledge  of  the  fashions  and  Ellen  by 
Mrs.  Dove's  liberal  parting  fees.  Rue  was  told  that  she 
might,  in  honor  of  the  coming  guest,  furnish  the  Guest- 
Chamber  with  bouquets.  The  cruel  ukase  had  evidently 
been  forgotten. 

Without  delay,  Rue  went  far  afield  with  adventurous 
desire  for  the  rarest  spoil.  She  came  upon  the  Hemlock 
Wood.  It  was  dark  and  cool,  though  outside  the  August 
sun  quivered  over  corn-fields  and  on  the  glassy  river. 
Fallen  logs  were  encrusted  with  velvet  ears  and  over- 
lapping shelves  of  fungoid  growth.  The  sun  sifted  through 
the  leaves  in  spots  like  coins.  She  sat  down  on  a  stump. 


A  TOADSTOOL  FANTASY  49 

A  partridge  flew  up  with  a  whirr,  making  her  heart  leap. 
She  remembered  the  ukase  concerning  flowers  and  its 
sudden  repeal.  And  in  whose  interest  was  it  repealed, 
forsooth  ?  For  Aunt  Elizabeth,  who  did  not  know  blue 
succory  from  Bouncing  Bet,  and  who  preferred  pot-grown 
geraniums  to  miraculous  cardinal  flowers  that  are  like 
burning  steeples  in  the  dark  river  coves.  For  herself,  never, 
never  again, —  the  Serenal  "  never  "  had  not  lost  its  potency 
over  her  childish  imagination, —  could  the  woods  be  ran- 
sacked. How  unreasonable  that  she  should  be  blamed 
because  certain  flowers  in  fading  make  a  disagreeable 
fuzz,  and  because  rotten  stems  emit  an  unpleasant  odor. 

"What  an  unnecessary  foolish  article  is  a  broom,"  re- 
flected Rue.  "  The  woods  are  never  swept  up  and  they  are 
clean  and  much  prettier  than  any  house." 

A  profound  pity  for  the  Sullen  Interlunar  Cave,  tenant- 
less  of  its  gladsome  blossoms,  possessed  her  heart.  How 
neglected,  how  lonely  it  must  be,  and  how  wondering! 
Poor  Cave,  doomed  to  such  emptiness  and  she  could  not 
explain. 

"For  it  has  no  ears,  it  cannot  hear,"  talked  Rue  aloud. 
"  The  windows  are  the  eyes  and  they  are  half -blind.  The 
door  is  the  mouth,  but  it  has  no  ears,  it  has  no  ears." 

Tears  blurred  her  sight  at  the  thought  of  the  Cave's 
uncomplaining  fate  till,  beneath  a  thicket  not  far  away, 
she  espied  a  fascinating  colony  of  little  golden  things 
standing  quietly  by  themselves.  Upon  investigation  they 
proved  to  be  toadstools,  of  the  most  elegant  and  distin- 
guished shapes  eye  ever  beheld.  They  were  fluted  goblets 
with  flaky  lining  and  crimped  edges.  Line  and  form  had  a 


50  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

natural  fascination  for  the  child.  She  felt  abstract  ideas 
through  the  quality  of  shape,  as  musical  people  get 
ideas  in  tone  and  painters  philosophize  in  schemes  of 
color.  The  only  pleasure  she  derived  from  her  lessons  was 
the  suggestion  they  afforded  to  her  imagination.  The  dull 
figures  in  the  arithmetic  book  were  little  soldiers  marshaled 
in  squares  or  columns.  Isthmus  and  peninsula  offered  a 
fertile  map  of  decorative  design. 

Rue  wandered  on,  finding  other  toadstools  fashioned 
as  delicately  as  vases,  tall  slender  ones  with  velvet-brown 
stems,  immaculate  pipings  underneath,  and  of  a  design 
charming  in  symmetry.  Some  were  concave  like  shallow 
saucers  and  others  convex  like  tureen  covers.  They  were 
in  ah1  shades  of  ecru  and  fawn.  Rue  shouted  for  glee  as  she 
rapidly  filled  her  basket  with  these  confections.  Once  on 
the  quest,  she  discovered  the  wood  to  be  an  eldorado  for 
fungi.  They  were  crimson,  orange,  purple;  they  built 
themselves  into  knobs,  parasols,  shells,  corals,  stools, 
hats,  tents;  all  colors  and  all  shapes;  they  intoxicated  her 
with  the  liberality  of  their  invention.  Their  nimble  humor 
and  fantastic  wit  melted  her  to  gratitude.  It  is  probable 
there  is  no  joy  in  the  world  equaling  in  keenness  the  joy 
of  discovery,  unless  it  be  the  joy  of  creation.  Other  joys 
may  be  more  tender,  more  deep,  more  enduring,  but  this 
joy  pierces  the  heart  with  an  unendurable  sting. 

"How  pleased  Aunt  Elizabeth  will  be,"  said  self-de- 
ceiving Rue,  as  reluctantly  she  went  home  with  her 
gorgeous  basket  of  spoils.  She  carried  no  flowers.  A  toad- 
stool bouquet  contained  the  epitome  of  beauty  and  origin- 
ality. 


A  TOADSTOOL  FANTASY  51 

Children  idealize  their  elders  in  even  a  day's  absence, 
so  that  the  clothes  of  the  absent  father  become  as  the 
garments  of  a  saint.  In  the  year  that  had  passed  since 
Aunt  Elizabeth's  last  visit,  a  nimbus  of  glory  had  been 
forming  around  her  well-crimped  head  and  nothing  less 
than  jewels  were  expected  to  fall  from  her  compressed  lips. 

After  a  narrow  escape  from  Justine,  encamped  on  a 
fat  white  rocking-horse,  on  the  back  porch  in  the  sun, 
Rue  entered  tiptoe  and  made  a  clandestine  passage  up 
the  backstairs,  through  the  Grotto  of  the  Four  Winds, 
and  into  the  Guest-Chamber.  Tired  from  her  strenuous 
tramp,  she  sank  into  the  splendid  chair  and  gave  herself 
over  to  the  chaste  luxuries  of  the  sacred  room.  The  laugh- 
ing boy  of  the  brook  watched  her  from  the  wall.  It  must 
have  been  from  his  mischievous  eye  that  the  impish  sug- 
gestion came.  She  took  the  stoppers  out  of  the  frosty-pink 
bottles  and  arranged  instead  two  corpulent  purple  fungi, 
umbrella-shaped,  and  already  shedding  their  population 
of  surprised  and  indignant  larvae.  Those  were  unnoticed 
in  the  exhilaration  of  the  hour.  In  the  lava  match-safe 
were  deposited  a  charming  circle  of  minute  orange-red 
and  gray  affairs,  so  thin  that  the  gills  shone  through, 
striping  the  margin  of  the  pileus.  The  tall  velvet-stemmed 
collybia,  like  snowy-lined  parasols,  made  an  effective 
group  in  the  Vesuvian  vase  for  the  dressing-table.  The 
goblets  with  fluted  edges,  known  to  the  mycological  student 
as  craterellus  floccosus,  and  various  other  fleshy  specimens 
of  gray  and  sordid  colors  yet  remained  for  artistic  adapta- 
tion to  the  furnishings  of  the  room.  Rue  could  think  of 
no  better  arrangement  than  a  frieze  above  the  embroidered 


52  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

pillow-coverings  and  a  rich  dado  below.  The  white  of  the 
bed-linen  served  admirably  to  bring  out  their  fine  colors 
and  shapes  and  supported  them  in  grace  and  comfort. 
Of  course,  she  understood  that  this  was  only  a  temporary 
decoration  but  how  effective  a  sight  to  greet  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth's eyes  after  her  monotonous  journey.  Hope  springs 
eternal  in  the  human  breast,  more  particularly  in  the 
breast  of  a  child.  Although  abashed  by  many  previous 
instances  of  Aunt  Elizabeth's  indifference  to  artistic 
appeal,  Rue  glowed  at  this  latest  triumph  of  hers  in  the 
way  of  couch  decoration  and  with  confident  expectation 
of  the  grateful  pleasure  it  would  inspire. 

There  was  time  to  arrange  the  pins  in  the  velvet  center 
of  the  pincushion  to  spell  Welcome,  and  then  came  sum- 
mons to  luncheon. 

"Aunt  Elizabeth's  room  is  all  ready.  I  have  decolated 
it  beautifully,"  she  remarked  naively,  eating  her  well- 
earned  bread  and  butter  and  salad  with  relish. 

"That  is  nice,"  said  Aunt  Serena,  absent-mindedly, 
debating  the  respective  merits  of  corn-bread  or  muffins. 

"  What  were  those  funny  things  in  your  baxkit  ?  "  asked 
Justine,  taking  advantage  of  a  lapse  of  observation  at  the 
grown-up  end  of  the  table  to  empty  half  of  the  sugar-bowl 
on  her  blackberries. 

"They  were  fairy  cups  and  umbrellas,"  said  Rue, 
patronizingly. 

"  No,  they  weren't.  They  were  nacky  toadstools  in  your 
baxkit,"  said  Justine,  glancing  for  approbation  to  the 
disengaged  parental  smile. 

This   childish    prattle   passed    unnoticed.    Meanwhile, 


A  TOADSTOOL  FANTASY  53 

larvae,  yellow  and  white,  were  rapidly  squirming  out  of 
their  honeycombed  retreats  and  spreading  themselves  on 
investigating  tours  over  Aunt  Elizabeth's  white  counter- 
pane and  Aunt  Elizabeth's  dressing-table. 

Such  was  the  sight  greeting  that  lady's  eyes  when  she 
"moved"  into  the  prepared  Guest-Chamber.  Toadstools 
flanking  one's  pillows  and  myriad  white  worms  wriggling 
under  one's  sheets  are  scarcely  calculated  to  touch  the 
heart  of  a  large  silken  lady  from  the  purlieus  of  Beacon 
Street.  Rue's  buoyant  expectations  were  promptly  nipped 
in  the  bud,  the  smile  with  which  she  displayed  her  work 
was  changed  to  a  sob,  her  pleas  were  sternly  suppressed 
and  she  was  sent  in  disgrace  to  bed. 

"A  sly,  wicked  child,"  said  Elizabeth  to  Serena.  "Mark 
my  word,  sister,  you  will  have  trouble  with  that  girl  when 
she  is  grown." 

Up-stairs,  Rue,  between  the  penitential  sheets,  with  the 
disgraceful  sunlight  streaking  her  yellow  walls,  eased  her 
breaking 'heart  by  passionate  sobs.  More  bitter  than  the 
punishment  was  the  misunderstanding.  What  she  had  done 
from  love  and  hospitality  had  been  traced  to  wanton  spite. 
The  contumely  with  which  her  beloved  trophies  had  been 
hurled  out  of  the  window  added  the  last  insufferable 
indignity.  There  were  many  many  hours  yet  before  it 
would  be  dark,  many  hours  in  which  to  lie  awake  and 
review  the  history  of  her  wrongs.  When  a  storm  came  up 
and  the  rain  fell  in  torrents,  she  was  glad.  It  appeased  her 
to  stand  at  the  pane  and  watch  the  rain  make  a  pool  in 
the  path  under  the  big  lilac-bush.  The  water  spurted  up 
angrily  to  meet  the  drops  from  the  sky.  At  last  the  purple 


54  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

clouds  blew  away  and  the  red  sunset  shone.  The  leaves 
dripped,  the  birds  shook  their  feathers  and  crooned,  the 
streams  along  the  driveway  reflected  patches  of  sky. 
Rue  smiled.  The  mud  shone  like  satin  on  the  path.  She 
would  creep  quietly  down  the  back  stairs,  bring  up  in  her 
wash-bowl  huge  gobs  of  that  delicious  mud,  and  with  this 
as  modeling  material  pass  the  season  of  imprisonment. 
She  would  make  an  image  of  Aunt  Elizabeth.  So,  in  storm 
and  stress,  was  Rue's  first  portrait  fiercely  conceived,  as 
retributive  justice.  Her  purpose  was  to  model  the  figure 
with  the  austereness  of  sincerity,  extenuating  nothing, 
the  sudden  hips,  the  low  brow,  the  wide  cheeks,  the  ges- 
ture of  the  contemptuous  hand.  Then,  in  the  presence  of 
the  assembled  family,  grouped  around  the  unsuspecting 
breakfast  table,  Rue,  in  full  view  on  the  back  porch  steps, 
holding  the  thing  on  high,  would  dash  it  to  pieces  on  the 
stones  of  the  gravel  road.  A  fit  fate  for  the  obnoxious 
simulacrum. 


vn 

THE  SILENT  DOOR 

THE  portrait  was  never  executed,  neither  privately 
in  the  West  Room,  nor  publicly  on  the  back 
porch  steps.  There  were  several  reasons.  First, 
it  is  a  delicate  matter  for  a  nightgowned  personage  to 
issue  by  day  upon  on  open  driveway  and  escape  attention. 
When  Rue  reached  the  second  landing,  in  that  occasional 
pause  for  reconnoitre  which  discretion  requires,  she 
heard,  on  the  floor  below,  the  enemy's  voice  proposing 
steamer-chairs  and  the  piazza  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

"We  city  people  find  such  delicious  air  a  luxury,"  said 
the  voice.  Aunt  Elizabeth  was  very  gracious,  especially 
after  her  advice  had  been  followed  and  Rue  been  sent  to 
bed.  She  praised  the  scenery  and  the  atmosphere,  caviling 
only  at  the  mists  from  the  river,  for  they  had  not  the  whole- 
someness  of  salt  fogs  from  the  Back  Bay. 

Then  a  rainbow  transpired.  Rue  heard  the  exclamations 
on  the  piazza  and  Justine  being  held  up  in  arms  to  crow 
over  the  wonderful  phenomenon.  Grandfather  was  ex- 
plaining something  about  the  "solar  spectrum,"  and 
Aunt  Elizabeth  was  insisting  on  a  much  more  beautiful 
rainbow  she  had  seen  in  Switzerland.  Aunt  Elizabeth 
always  outdid  every  one  else  in  what  she  had  seen  and 
known.  Rue  scuttled  up-stairs  to  observe  for  herself  from 

55 


56  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

the  west  window.  The  rainbow  had  a  tranquilizing  in- 
fluence, the  search  for  modeling  material  went  no  further. 
The  portrait  bust  was  forgotten. 

Slumber  modified  her  resentment.  The  next  day  was 
enveloped  in  the  subdued  atmosphere  customary  after 
upheavals.  She  was  debarred  the  privilege  of  outdoor  for 
that  period,  a  concession  which  Aunt  Serena  wrung  from 
Justinian,  out  of  respect  to  Mrs.  Rodney  Dove. 

All  day  in  the  parlor  weighty  discussions  went  on. 
Justinian  secreted  himself  behind  his  weekly  paper,  grimly 
inattentive  to  the  women's  chatter.  No  daily  papers  were 
received  at  Penrith  House.  They  were  regarded  as  dissipat- 
ing to  the  intellectuality.  It  was  a  mooted  point  between 
Justinian  and  Mrs.  Dove,  the  latter  maintaining  that 
persons  of  gentility  and  culture  the  world  over  relied  on 
the  daily  papers  to  keep  themselves  informed  of  the  world's 
great  doings.  Justinian  would  then  question  her  professor- 
ially  as  to  the  latest  diplomatic  blow  inflicted  by  Russia 
on  Germany  and  entrap  her  to  absurdities.  Aunt  Elizabeth 
would  not  quite  understand  how  absurd  she  had  been. 
She  was  deficient  in  a  sense  of  humor.  Justinian  then 
turned  to  his  weekly  and  Aunt  Serena  soothed  Elizabeth 
with  a  diversion  of  topic.  It  was  due  to  one  of  these  diver- 
sions that  Rue  was  saved  from  Aunt  Serena's  old  black 
silk  dress  made  over  into  a  Sunday  frock,  a  calamity  some- 
time impending  over  Rue's  head.  Also,  Aunt  Serena  was 
initiated  into  newer  ways  of  dressing  the  children's  hair. 
Rue's  frolicsome  locks  were  allowed  to  curl  on  her  shoul- 
ders and  were  tied  with  a  big  blue  bow  above  her  left  ear. 
It  was  a  coquettish  coiffure  which  Aunt  Serena  reluctantly 


THE  SILENT  DOOR  57 

permitted,  after  a  long  siege  of  arguments  and  citations 
of  undeniable  authority  from  Aunt  Elizabeth.  Justine's 
satiny  mop  of  black  hair  was  cut  after  the  quaint  square 
pattern  of  the  day,  Aunt  Elizabeth's  own  hand  wielding 
the  skilful  shears. 

"  A  pity  Rue's  hair  is  kinky,"  said  she.  "  Straight  hair  is 
so  fashionable  at  present." 

Justine,  placidly  conscious  of  her  own  more  exemplar}' 
locks,  sat  upon  a  stool  and  basked  in  Aunt  Elizabeth's 
approval.  Rue,  released  from  the  hair-dressing,  rushed 
up-stairs  to  survey  herself  in  several  favorite  mirrors.  She 
selected  Justine's  room  as  affording  the  freest  opportunity, 
and  sitting  on  a  high  chair  before  the  glass,  she  nodded, 
smiled  and  gesticulated  like  Lady  Vanity.  She  shook  her 
curls  this  way  and  that, —  how  happy  they  were  to  be 
released  from  the  confinement  of  braids, —  and  made 
various  grimaces  in  contrasting  phases  of  the  horrible, 
the  piquant  or  the  grotesque.  This  was  in  order  to  test  the 
all-round  adaptability  of  the  new  curls  to  every  emotional 
crisis  which  might  invest  her  features.  I  do  not  think 
parents  realize  how  useful  such  exercises  are  for  the  young. 
How  painful  it  would  be  to  feel  one's  self  suddenly 
possessed  by  a  strange  emotion  and  the  features  undisci- 
plined to  express  it.  Rue  tried  the  effect  of  looking  at  her- 
self upside  down,  with  the  curls  hanging  off  to  one  side, 
a  sunny  chestnut  cataract,  the  cheeks  puffed  out  enormous- 
ly, and  the  eyes  squinted  to  a  sinister  slant.  Try  it  for 
yourself,  you  Grown-up,  and  you  will  see  what  an  un- 
familiar interest  is  lent  to  the  visage.  Justine  entered, 
having  taken  the  stairs  with  leisure,  by  aid  of  the  banister, 


58  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

as  became  one  recently  emancipated  from  outside  assist- 
ance. A  stature  low  in  proportion  to  one's  width,  and  feet 
too  small  for  the  plumpness  of  one's  legs,  retard  the  display 
of  agility.  Justine  was  dignified  and  grave  on  declivities 
of  all  sorts.  Her  nap  hour  was  approaching,  heralded  by 
uncertainties  of  temper,  by  unreasonable  insistence  on 
proprietary  rights,  but  most  conspicuously  by  the  presence 
of  the  blue  blanket.  For  an  hour  previous  to  the  happy 
cribtime,  the  blanket  was  her  constant  companion  and 
could  not  be  detached  from  her  grasp.  She  affectionately 
sucked  a  corner  of  it  as  she  entered  the  room,  dragging 
its  blue  woolly  length  behind  her  like  a  mantle.  Justine 
was  very  proud  of  her  little  white-painted  dressing-table, 
with  its  chintz -draped  mirror  against  the  blue-bird  wall- 
paper. One's  looking-glass  was  something  like  one's  mug 
or  one's  hair-ribbon,  injured  by  over  use.  Virtue  went  out 
of  it,  and  here  was  naughty  big  Rue,  with  the  unfashionable 
hair,  wastefully  making  images  of  herself  in  the  precious 
possession. 

"  What  do  I  look  like,  Justine  ?  "  inquired  hopeful  Rue, 
enlarging  the  balloon  of  her  cheek  and  diminishing  the 
slit  of  her  eye. 

Surely  Justine  would  be  captivated  by  this  master  act  of 
mobility.  Instead,  Justine  showed  temper.  She  applied 
both  fists  and  teeth  to  Rue's  unprotected  legs: 

"A  wickless  cheef!"  she  sobbed  in  fury.  Justine  was 
noted,  even  at  this  epoch,  as  later  in  life,  for  verbal  in- 
accuracies. She  had  a  natural  facility  for  the  inverted 
phrase,  the  mispronounced  word,  and  with  this  was  coupled 
towering  rhetorical  ambition.  A  "wickless  cheef,"  is  a 


THE  SILENT  DOOR  59 

wicked  thief;  findder-lagies  are  lady -fingers;  taw-jacks 
are  jack-straws,  and  a  glass-ookie  is  a  looking-glass.  She 
had  the  calmness,  however,  to  seize  the  banisters  for  the 
downward  flight,  reciting  all  the  way  her  prepared  accusa- 
tion. 

"Rue  oozing  all-up  Justine  glass-ookie." 

"Oozing  all-up,"  is  a  splendid  combination  on  which 
to  wail.  It  succeeded  in  the  parlor.  Both  Aunt  Serena 
and  Aunt  Elizabeth  attended  the  sufferer  to  her  crib,  and 
were  not  allowed  to  leave  till  she  was  safely  in  dreamland. 
Justine  was  imperious  even  when  at  her  sleepiest  and  took 
pains  to  wake  up  at  the  slightest  sign  of  uneasiness  on  the 
part  of  the  bedside  attendants.  Rue  thought  she  played  with 
them  like  a  cat  with  a  mouse  and  made  believe  shut  her 
eyes  and  let  them  go  just  for  the  pleasure  of  bringing 
them  instantaneously  back  to  her  with  a  royal  motion  of 
her  little  paw. 

Rue,  meantime,  had  fled  to  the  recesses  of  the  third 
floor,  there  to  while  away  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  in 
peace.  If  the  wind  had  not  been  blowing  so  hard,  and  the 
tree  tops  not  been  dancing  so  divinely,  she  would  not  have 
repined  under  her  imprisonment.  As  it  was,  the  portrait 
bust  was  on  the  eve  of  execution  when  the  Silent  Door 
occurred  to  her. 

It  was  the  one  Door  in  Penrith  House  which  Rue  had 
never  opened.  It  was  at  the  top,  in  a  wing  above  the 
sacred  Guest-Chamber.  The  back  stairs  led  directly  to  it, 
pausing  in  a  vestibule  before  its  barred  door.  The  vestibule 
was  full  of  soft  monastic  light  from  a  ground -glass  sky- 
window  in  the  roof  and  looked  down  on  the  austere  wind- 


60  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

ing  whiteness  of  the  back  stairs.  The  front  stairs,  as  you 
go  up,  debouched  at  an  angle  and  gave  on  another  door, 
after  you  descended  three  little  steps.  You  went  no  further. 
This  Door  was  not  barred  from  within  but  locked  without 
and  the  key  was  where  no  man  might  behold  it.  You  could 
peep  through  the  keyhole  but  all  you  saw  was,  at  midday, 
a  disk  of  sun  on  the  floor  and  the  long  shine  of  a  spider's 
thread  in  the  light.  You  could  inquire  of  Aunt  Serena 
and  of  Grandfather.  The  former  would  say : 

"Merely  a  store-room,  my  dear.  Go  at  once  and  wash 
those  hands." 

In  that  unfeeling  manner  were  Rue's  hands  designated 
when  not  immaculately  clean.  The  latter  would  reply, 
sternly : 

"Your  question  is  an  irrelevancy.  You  may  learn  the 
passive  voice  of  Moneo  for  to-morrow's  lesson." 

The  passive  voice  of  moneo  is  a  stubborn  thing  to 
acquire,  possibly  supposed  to  cure  irrelevancy.  Irrelevance 
is  something  like  irreverence,  such  as  laughing  at  the  fly 
on  Deacon  Loami  Larrabee's  bald  head  in  church,  or 
counting  the  plums  in  your  sauce-plate  during  the  blessing. 
Only  an  irrelevance, —  or  did  he  say  irrevelence  ?  —  is 
worse.  It  seldom  achieves  the  object  in  view,  namely,  a 
diversion  from  lessons,  but  draws  down  instead  an  addi- 
tional stent  of  rules  for  the  Ablative  Absolute,  or  eight 
more  stanzas  from  the  Ode  on  the  Nativity. 

Rue  could  not  fail  to  return  in  her  mind  to  the  Silent 
Door.  She  had  tried  many  a  key  to  the  lock  but  not  one 
ever  fitted.  This  afternoon  there  was  a  bureau-drawer 
key  which  turned  something  back  and  forth  in  an  obliging 


THE  SILENT  DOOR  61 

manner,  but  still  the  Door  did  not  open.  She  knocked  upon 
the  Door,  aware  that  such  an  act  was  foolishness,  but  it 
would  be  foolisher  yet  to  leave  untried  a  single  expedient 
for  gaining  ingress. 

It  gave  one  a  queer  feeling  to  knock  on  that  Silent  Door 
and  then  put  one's  ear  to  the  hole  and  listen.  The  knock 
and  the  listening  projected  a  bodily  presence  upon  one's 
consciousness.  Perhaps  the  hidden  inmate  was  very  weak 
and  could  hardly  summon  the  voice  to  answer. 

At  twilight  it  was  Rue's  pensive  choice  to  descend  those 
three  little  steps  and  cling  to  the  sill  of  the  Silent  Door, 
hanging  to  the  handle,  and  after  two  timid  knocks  to  listen 
intently  till  the  silence  gave  forth  a  trembling  voice  and 
tiny  terrified  noises.  So  fascinated  was  she  by  these  un- 
translatable responses  that  she  did  not  hear  the  supper- 
bell  tinkle  nor  Grandfather's  voice  at  the  back  porch, 
gathering  her  in  from  her  accustomed  orchard  haunts, 
his  long  melodious  roar  reverberating  through  the  ancient 
aisles.  Aunt  Serena  reminded  him  of  Rue's  detention 
indoors.  He  had  to  go  up-stairs  in  search  of  the  errant  one, 
and  there  she  was  on  the  narrow  landing,  her  lips  pursed 
to  the  shape  of  a  keyhole,  whispering  comfort  to  the 
hidden  inmate  behind  that  Silent  Door. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  demanded  in  a  voice  so 
unexpected  and  awful  as  to  deprive  her  of  her  prehensile 
grasp  upon  the  sill.  She  was  only  saved  from  falling  back- 
ward down-stairs  by  a  very  firm  hand  on  her  arm. 

"  I  was  only  comforting  the  poor  lady  inside." 

"What  poor  lady?"  asked  Grandfather,  terrible  lines 
deepening  in  his  ashen  face. 


62  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Rue's  breath  came  in  gasps.  She  did  not  know  her  crime 
had  been  so  great. 

"Who  lives  behind  that  Silent  Door.  She  is  so  hungry 
and  so  lonely  and  so  shut  in." 

At  this  point  Rue  sobbed,  and  Grandfather  took  her  to 
his  breast. 

"There  is  no  poor  lady  behind  that  closed  door.  The 
room  is  empty,  quite,  quite,  empty." 

Rue's  wet  cheek  felt  a  tear.  She  was  not  sure  whether  it 
were  her  own  or  Grandfather's.  She  patted  his  rough  gray 
beard.  Now  was  a  good  time  to  ask  for  concessions.  The 
sunny  periods  that  follow  severity  are  always  favorable. 

"Will  you  let  me  go  into  the  Room,  Grandfather?" 

"  Some  day,  dear." 

They  sat  there  upon  the  landing  till  Aunt  Serena  had  to 
sweep  upward  and  fetch  them  both  to  the  long-delayed 
supper.  Grandfather  was  very  gay  at  table  and  told  many 
of  his  favorite  jokes  and  stories,  at  which  Rue  faithfully 
laughed,  at  every  one.  But  the  deep  lines  stayed  in  his  face 
and  looked  as  if  they  had  been  drawn  by  cords,  and  when 
Aunt  Elizabeth  spoke,  his  eyes  seemed  to  wander  far  away. 

After  supper  he  played  seven  games  of  checkers  with 
Rue  and  allowed  himself  to  be  beaten  four  times.  Then 
Aunt  Serena  read  aloud  from  Pope's  "  Iliad,"  a  stirring 
passage  full  of  boasting  chiefs  and  ringing  battles,  which 
fortified  Rue  wonderfully  against  the  lonely  undressing- 
hour.  She  undressed  in  the  dark,  a  hardship  consequent 
upon  recent  lamp  calamities  in  which  she  had  unjustly 
been  implicated.  It  was  a  solace  to  throw  down  her  shoes  in 
a  spirited  clatter  on  the  floor,  to  unbuckle  her  belt  full 


THE  SILENT  DOOR  63 

martially,  to  spread  her  flowing  locks  and  imagine  herself 
Achilles,  doffing  glittering  armor  in  his  tent  before  the 
walls  of  Troy. 

To-morrow's  light !  O  haste  the  glorious  morn  ! 
Shall  see  his  bloody  spoils  in  triumph  borne, 
With  this  keen  javelin  shall  his  heart  be  gored 
And  prostrate  heroes  bleed  around  their  lord. 


vni 

WINTER  WEATHER 

ON  the  day  of  Mrs.  Rodney  Dove's  departure  she 
presented  Rue  with  a  green-bound  corpulent 
volume,  called  "  Fairy  Tales  from  Many  Lands," 
a  generosity  that  forever  endeared  her  to  Rue's  heart  and 
wiped  out  a  multitude  of  sins.  Aunt  Elizabeth  said  the 
Green  Book  would  be  much  prettier  reading  for  a  little 
girl  than  "  The  Iliad  "  or  "  The  History  of  Genghis  Khan," 
gory  pabulum  that  was  Rue's  chosen  delight  at  the  age 
of  six. 

Autumn  flamed  and  blew  and  smoldered  at  Pen- 
rith  Place,  and  along  the  Jerusalem  river.  The  leaves 
drifted  into  the  roads  in  knee-deep  ruts,  the  russet  apples 
were  picked  and  barreled  for  the  winter.  The  barberry- 
bush  by  the  gate  was  strung  with  red,  The  chestnut-tree 
by  Mr.  Larrabee's  pond  disbursed  daily  a  hoard  of  prickly 
green  treasure-boxes. 

By  and  by  the  frosts  came  that  turned  the  geranium 
black  overnight  and  left  a  thin  coat  of  ice  upon  the  pail 
at  the  barn  pump.  Grandfather  sat  every  day  with  his  feet 
on  the  fender  of  the  library  fire,  studying  in  large  black- 
bound  books,  or  waiting  impatiently  for  the  letters  that 
Rue  would  bring  him  from  the  Joppa  post-office.  Rue 
never  wondered  what  those  letters  contained  nor  who 

64 


WINTER  WEATHER  65 

wrote  them  nor  why  Grandfather  awaited  them  so  fever- 
ishly,—  nor  why,  sometimes,  a  letter  would  fall  from  his 
hands  and  he  would  sit  gazing  into  the  fire  for  hours,  like  a 
person  in  a  trance.  All  these  things  to  her  were  as  the 
opening  of  the  chestnut  burrs  or  the  crimsoning  of  the 
leaves,  phenomena  that  had  ceased  to  be  strange  because 
they  were  the  order  of  the  universe. 

Justinian  Penrith,  though  he  said  no  word  to  any  one  of 
Edward  Bastable's  visit,  had  not  forgotten  the  unusual 
incident  nor  could  he  put  from  his  mind  the  conjectures 
that  it  aroused.  It  was  the  first  indication  that  any  one 
besides  himself  was  interested  in  the  waif  found  on  his 
door-step.  He  had  gone  out  early  one  summer  morning 
and  there  lay  the  pretty  morsel,  disputing  with  a  motherly 
robin  for  possession  of  a  ladybug  coveted  by  them  both. 

There  had  been  gipsies  that  summer  camping  along 
the  Jerusalem  river.  They  had  with  them  a  blue-eyed 
baby  child,  a  stolen  child,  as  the  rumor  grew,  and  Justinian 
told  himself,  as  he  told  others,  that  the  waif  on  his  door- 
step was  undoubtedly  the  gipsies'  child  whom  they  had 
been  frightened  into  abandoning. 

So  she  fell  from  the  morning  sky  and  there  was  no  one 
to  be  questioned  concerning  her  but  the  fat  robin.  As 
little  Rue  grew  older  it  was  natural  that  she  should  call 
Justinian  grandfather.  She  was  dealt  with  by  him  sternly 
in  all  respects  where  he  had  been  too  lenient  with  his  own 
daughter,  lost  Danae. 

Whatever  Justinian,  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  believed  to 
be  the  child's  origin,  he  gave  no  sign.  Whether  or  not  the 
village  gossip  came  to  his  ears,  he  gave  no  sign.  He  was  a 


66  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

proud  man,  proud  enough  to  care  a  great  deal  for  the 
world's  opinion,  too  proud  to  show,  by  the  flicker  of  an 
eyelash,  that  he  cared  one  jot. 

Meanwhile,  a  circle  of  watchful  relatives  awaited 
significant  development  in  the  character  of  the  child.  A 
gipsy  foundling  would  not  grow  up  as  other  children 
do.  Comparisons  were  made  between  her  and  Justine, 
the  little  grandniece  who  had  fallen  into  Dr.  Penrith's 
care. 

But  Edward  Bastable's  singular  proposition  started 
anew  the  puzzle  in  Justinian's  mind.  Who  was  Rue  and 
whence  came  she  ?  If  she  was  Danae's,  Danae's.  —  Even  in 
the  smother  of  midnight  dark  his  face  burned.  His  dis- 
owned daughter  whom  he  had  tried  to  forget!  If  she  were 
Danae's  and  Danae  wanted  her  child  again,  where  was  the 
father  ?  Whence  came  the  money  ?  What  would  the  grand- 
father's duty  be  ? 

Justinian  Penrith  was  a  poor  man.  The  household  was 
conducted  with  the  utmost  frugality.  Another  trip  to  New 
York  would  be  a  serious  drain  on  the  family  exchequer. 
Years  ago,  he  had  gone  there,  to  search  (sternly  and  secretly 
he  searched  )  for  his  runaway  child.  But  perhaps  through 
Edward  Bastable  the  mystery  might  be  solved,  the  mystery 
of  Rue's  birth,  of  Danae's  disappearance. 

Meanwhile,  he  heard  again  from  E.  W.  Bastable.  An- 
other and  a  stronger  plea  was  made  for  Rue's  adoption. 
References  were  offered,  although  the  name  of  the  person 
chiefly  interested  was  withheld,  "for  good  and  sufficient 
cause."  Dr.  Penrith  was  promised  a  larger  financial  con- 
sideration. The  wonder  in  his  mind  increased.  Was  he 


WINTER  WEATHER  67 

doing  right  by  the  child  to  withhold  from  following  up 
this  clue  ? 

There  was  much  time  for  reading  and  meditation  during 
the  long  winter  months  in  Penrith  House,  though  it  was 
difficult  for  Rue  to  obtain  privacy.  She  was,  of  course, 
debarred  from  Grandfather's  sacred  retreat,  the  library. 
The  dining-room  fireplace  and  Aunt  Serena's  sunny 
sewing-room  were  the  only  habitable  centers  of  warmth, 
and  there  one  was  liable  to  frequent  interruption  and 
cross-questioning. 

The  Ode  on  the  Nativity  had  to  be  completed  by  Christ- 
mas-time and  Rue  had  only  reached  the  line  about  "  welter- 
ing waves,"  and  was  therefore  still  waist-deep  in  her  task. 
"And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy  channel  keep." 
There  were  certain  phrases  of  this  picturesque  sort,  "the 
hooked  chariot,"  "the  turtle  wing,"  that  stood  out  like 
grotesque  cornices  and  gargoyles  on  an  otherwise  monoton- 
ous fa9ade.  From  them  one  could  date  forward  and  back- 
ward, as  one  does,  in  lieu  of  a  calender,  from  some  memor- 
able occasion. 

Justine  was  learning  a  Christmas  hymn  and  could 
already  warble  with  charming  fluency:  i 

"While  leopards  washed  their  flocks  by  night — " 

It  was  an  Aesopian  idea  suggesting  all  kinds  of  bizarre 
millenniums.  Justine's  trusting  nature  accepted  the  bit  of 
natural  history  without  question.  Rue  would  have  wonder- 
ed if  leopards  were  kind  to  their  flocks  and  why  they 
chose  the  night-time  for  those  ablutions.  Would  not  day 
have  been  better,  when  the  sun  could  have  dried  their 
woolly  hair? 


68  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Justine  listened  very  intently  to  the  text  of  the  sermon 
and  Aunt  Serena  thought  she  might  soon  be  ready  to  join 
the  church.  Elder  Trimble  read  how  a  certain  company 
of  the  baser  sort  gathered  together  and  set  all  the  city  on 
an  uproar.  Justine's  dreamy  mind  pictured  a  large  and 
noisy  vehicle  bearing  mimic  edifices  like  block  towers. 
Then  they  assaulted  the  house  of  Jason.  At  this  point  the 
vision  grew  mixed.  Mooly  cows  are  sometimes  salted,  but 
why  salt  the  house  of  Jason  ?  Several  weeks  after,  Ellen 
sprinkled  damp  salt  on  the  parlor  floor  before  she  swept. 
It  was  one  of  those  housewifely  recipes  dear  to  her  heart 
because  she  had  learned  it  from  her  first  mistress  and 
it  was  supposed  to  obviate  the  maelstroms  of  dust  that 
the  domestics  of  Erin  joy  in  arousing.  Justine  watched 
her  operations  with  the  scientific  eye  of  a  learner  and  at 
once  showed  the  coordinating  power  of  her  mind,  one  of 
the  chief  indications,  we  are  told,  of  human  intelligence. 
It  was  at  the  luncheon  table: 

"Ellen  hab  salted  the  house  of  Jason  under  the  pinano." 

"Some  occult  association  of  ideas,"  said  Grandfather 
proudly.  Justinian  did  not  go  to  church  and  therefore  had 
not  heard  the  elder's  text. 

"What  a  wonderful  memory  the  child  has!"  exclaimed 
Aunt  Serena. 

Rue  felt  extinguished  by  this  burst  of  occultism  from 
Justine.  Justine,  aware  that  she  had  become  the  heroine 
of  the  hour,  applied  successfully  for  a  second  share  of 
rice-pudding  and  was  allowed  afterwards  to  stand  on  a 
stool  and  look  at  the  pictures  in  the  back  of  the  dictionary. 
Rue  humbly  retired  behind  the  muslin  curtains  of  the 


WINTER  WEATHER  69 

bay-window  and  soon  lost  herself  in  the  pages  of  the  fat 
Green  Book. 

In  this  book  she  learned  about  changeling  children, 
enchanted  princes,  wicked  stepmothers  and  dreadful 
witches.  Vast  fields  of  speculation  were  opened  to  her. 
She  began  to  wonder  as  to  birth,  death,  and  the  mysteries 
of  life.  She  suspected  every  one  of  walking  disguised.  Even 
Augustus,  the  horse,  might  be  a  black-bearded  king,  mas- 
querading. Ellen,  the  jelly-like  cook  down-stairs,  with  the 
kindly  pit  marks  in  her  ample  cheeks,  might  perhaps  be 
a  lovely  maiden  whom  a  cruel  stepmother  had  bewitched. 
Rue  watched  with  fascinated  interest  as  Ellen  padded 
about  on  her  heels  from  stove  to  table  and  sipped  number- 
less "dishes  of  tay."  Perhaps  she  was  trying  to  attain 
the  magical  number  at  which  the  witchcraft  would  lose 
its  power.  The  tenth  or  the  twentieth  cup  was  possibly 
open  sesame  to  her  lost  loveliness. 

"How  many  cups  will  it  take,  Ellen?"  she  asked  sym- 
pathetically, sitting  opposite  Ellen  at  the  kitchen-table, 
her  knees  on  a  level  with  her  chin  and  her  chin  on  the  table. 
Rue  loved  to  watch  the  kitchen  ladies  at  their  repasts. 
Their  idiosyncrasies  with  their  utensils  and  their  division 
of  their  beverages  between  cup  and  saucer  had  the  interest 
of  folk-lore  to  her. 

"  How  many  cups  will  it  take  me,  darlint  ?  Begorra,  it's 
yoursilf  is  the  knowing  bosthoon!  .  .  .  It's  not  the 
tay  would  be  doing  it  for  me  at  all,  at  all,  but  a  nip  foreby 
mesilf  has  not  laid  eyes  on  in  The  Grandfayther's  hoose, 
och  presarve  us." 

How  quickly  Ellen  understood !  Rue  found  the  inmates  of 


70  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

the    lower  regions    highly  congenial.   She  leaned  farther 

forward  toward  Ellen's  tablecloth  and  private  tea  service. 

"  Not  twenty,  not  a  billion  million  cups  ?  " 

"  Not  a  power  of  cups,  honey.  But  a  bit  dhrop  of  some- 
thing stronger  to  swally,  more  betoken,  would  set  me  heels 
a-skytin." 

"Oh,  Ellen,  Ellen,"  cried  Rue,  clasping  her  hands, 
"  Would  you  dance  like  Little  Red  Shoes  ?  You  are  Little 
Red  Shoes.  You  are  Little  Red  Shoes." 

"Troth  and  if  I  had  little  red  shoes  on  me  iligant  feet 
it's  off  wid  mesilf  I  would  be  entoirely.  Fair  moidhered 
I'd  be,  as  you  can  obsarve." 

Poor  clumsy  Ellen,  exhilarated  by  the  little  child's 
enthusiasm,  began  to  execute  an  Irish  jig  in  true  County 
Kerry  style.  Rue  danced  up  and  down  beside  her,  keeping 
time  ecstatically  with  the  handle  of  the  broom.  Suddenly 
Ellen  paused,  an  expression  of  tragic  concern  on  her  plain 
pock-marked  face. 

"  Ye  have  a  right  not  to  be  telling  The  Grandfayther. 
The  dacint  craythur  would  not  comprehind  this  divilment." 

"Never,"  cried  Rue.  "But  I  think  he  would  be  very 
sorry  for  you  if  he  knew  how  the  witch  had  changed  you. 
He  would  try  to  punish  her,  I  am  sure." 

Rue  put  her  hands  to  her  temples  and  thought  very  hard. 

"You  stand  perfectly  still  by  the  pump,  Ellen,  and  I 
will  make  three  passes  with  my  hands  and  say, '  Begone, 
O  wicked  spell,'  and  then  do  you  know  what  will  happen  ?  " 

"Something  a  thrifle  off  the  common,  I  persaive.  But 
what  shall  I  do  nixt,  darlint  ?  " 

"You  don't  have  to  do  anything,  Ellen.  Only  change 


WINTER  WEATHER  71 

back  again  quickly  to  the  beautiful  maid  with  golden  locks." 

"It's  a  purty  manner  of  spache  you  have,  but  bedad 
that's  no  aisy  trick  for  Ellen.  And  phwat's  to  become  of 
me  ould  cloots  of  clothes  ?  They  cut  no  grand  apparance 
on  me  whativer  at  all." 

Rue  was  nonplussed  by  this  practical  problem. 

"  I  don't  know  wrhat  they  did  in  the  fairy  books  with  their 
dreadful  old  clothes.  It's  something  like  undressing.  Mr. 
Dewsnap's  boy  might  come  hi  at  the  door  with  the  Sunday 
roast.  Perhaps  we'd  better  have  it  in  the  dark  pantry." 

But  before  there  was  time  for  this  "dark  change,"  on 
the  boards,  a  signal  came  from  above.  Grandfather  pound- 
ed on  the  register,  which  meant  that  Rue's  absence  from 
polite  circles,  having  been  unduly  prolonged, she  had  been 
traced  to  the  kitchen  and  was  summarily  recalled  to  other 
and  more  "profitable"  employments. 

This  explains  why  the  three  mystic  passes  were  never  made 
and  why  poor  Ellen  was  never  liberated  from  her  enchanted 
bonds.  The  experiment  was  afterwards  performed,  it  is 
true,  but  the  auspicious  hour  had  been  allowed  to  slip  by. 

Winter  was  a  good  time  for  meditation.  Everything  was 
fantastic  and  unreal.  The  frost  made  curious  tropical 
forests  on  the  window-panes,  ferns  and  palms  and  pines, 
peopled  by  flat,  silent  silver  fairies  who  glided  off  before  the 
noonday  sun  and  came  into  being  again  when  the  after- 
noon shadows  lengthened  on  the  orchard  floors.  The  clothes 
on  the  line  froze  into  goblin  shapes,  distorted  white  legs 
and  arms.  The  topmost  apples  hung  like  shriveled  pygmy 
heads  on  the  gaunt  boughs.  They  grinned  horribly  at  Rue 
because  they  had  not  been  picked  and  had  been  allowed 


72  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

to  hang  there  and  suffer  all  the  bitter  nights.  She  was 
afraid  of  them  as  they  twisted  their 'wrinkled  necks  and 
leered  at  her  revengefully,  nodding  in  the  wild  winds. 
But  they  never  fell. 

The  sun  in  the  morning  was  red  like  a  pot  of  paint, 
spilling  over  the  sheeted  river.  Sometimes  the  evening 
sky,  melting  above  the  frothed  white  top  of  the  Hemlock 
Wood,  looked  like  a  steaming  gold  Indian-pudding  sliced 
across  the  whipped  whiteness  of  meringue. 

Ah*  these  things  Rue  could  see  and  ponder  over  in  her 
little  West  Room,  if  she  blanketed  herself  for  meditation 
and  retreat.  The  room  had  no  longer  the  warmth  of  those 
languid  summer  days  and  nights  when  she  was  obliged  to 
sprinkle  her  carpet  to  reduce  the  temperature.  Often,  of 
an  August  evening,  she  had  perched  herself  on  the  lid  of 
her  old-fashioned  desk  that  contained  in  its  interior 
chaos  her  ragged  Latin  grammar  and  the  calico-covered 
arithmetic  of  detested  memory  and  watched  from  her 
window  the  busy  flutterings  of  the  birds  preparing  for 
slumber,  the  long  swirls  of  twilight-loving  swallows  and 
the  slowly  sinking  sun.  He  blinked  a  red  lid  at  her  and 
then  disappeared.  After  that,  the  hills  melted  away  and 
the  great  meadow  turned  to  mystery  and  the  whippoonvill 
began  his  wondrous  tearful  plaint.  By  and  by  the  sickle 
moon  would  swing  into  her  arc  of  sky  and  the  river  would 
shiver  with  a  silver  road  widening  like  eternity.  Still  Rue 
would  lean  on  her  window-sill  till  little  tremors  ran  up  and 
down  under  her  nightgown.  Then  she  crept  to  bed. 

The  West  Room  had  sloping  walls,  for  it  was  under  a 
mansard  roof.  These  walls  were  tinted  pale  yellow  and 


WINTER  WEATHER  73 

were  tempting  for  trials  of  artistic  skill  or  as  permanent 
records  of  passing  moods.  It  is  a  comfort  when  in  the 
stress  of  emotion  to  inscribe  one's  feelings  on  monu- 
ments. The  vision  of  sympathetic  posterity  sustains  one 
under  affliction.  But  such  appeals  to  posterity  were  not 
approved  by  Aunt  Serena,  any  more  than  was  the  watering 
of  her  carpet  as  a  means  of  reducing  the  temperature.  On 
winter  days  it  was  not  necessary  to  reduce  the  tempera- 
ture. It  was  a  question  every  night  whether  she  would 
finally  succeed  in  thawing  out  the  icy  sheets.  Grandfather 
described  the  temperature  as  "  moderate  and  healthful  for 
sleep."  It  was  two  flights  of  stairs  removed  from  the  genial 
register,  yet  Grandfather,  standing  in  her  hall  with  his 
hand  spread  out  above  the  banisters  to  test  the  heat,  de- 
clared : 

"A  very  powerful  current  of  hot  air  descends  from  the 
furnace.  If  your  mind  were  sufficiently  receptive  you  would 
not  fail  to  notice  it,  my  dear." 

It  was  Rue's  fault  that  her  unreceptive  mind  failed  to 
heat  her  bedroom.  She  imagined  that  somewhere  in  the 
world  there  were  little  girls  of  such  docile  dispositions  as 
permanently  kept  their  bleak  third-story  bedrooms  at 
summer  heat.  In  this  case,  as  Grandfather  was  both  land- 
lord and  furnace-man,  the  advantage  was  plainly  his.  He 
utilized  the  opportunity  to  teach  Rue  some  indisputable 
facts  about  the  upward  tendency  of  heat  and  his  own 
superior  fitness,  as  a  man  of  age  and  vast  experiences,  for 
knowing  whether  little  girls  were  cold  or  only  imagined 
they  were  cold.  He  put  an  extra  comforter  on  the  bed, 
tucked  her  in  about  the  shoulders  and  feet, —  he  was  an 


74  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

excellent  tucker-in  —  commented  cheerily  on  the  invigorat- 
ing weather,  and  soon  afterwards,  as  she  took  turns  warm- 
ing her  icy  feet  against  her  lukewarm  body,  she  heard 
'  him  stoking  up  the  furnace  and  shutting  the  register  below 
stairs  to  encourage  heat  in  its  commendable  upward 
tendency. 

Gradually  Rue  communicated  some  warmth  to  the 
enveloping  frigidity  of  sheets,  she  made  a  nest  for  her  head 
and  occasionally  crept  under  the  blankets  to  warm  her 
nose, —  an  abandoned  habit  that  Grandfather  particularly 
disapproved.  It  ameliorated  the  bitterness  of  the  cold  to 
imagine  that  she  was  an  Arctic  explorer  imbedded  hi  ice, 
and  that  the  rattling  of  her  blind  on  its  chain  in  the  tem- 
pestuous west  wind  outside  was  the  rattling  of  the  North 
Pole  and  the  creaking  of  the  Polar  Bear  perpetually 
chained  thereto.  Gradually  the  unhoped-for,  the  impossible, 
became  true,  as  it  did  every  night,  her  vehement  prognosti- 
cations to  the  contrary.  Her  bed  became  of  a  habitable 
warmth,  she  herself  became  warm,  relaxed.  A  star  trembled 
and  winked  green  against  her  black  window-pane.  How 
cold  and  lonely  he  was,  how  he  wanted  to  come  in.  The 
next  thing  she  knew,  it  was  breakfast  time  and  Aunt 
Serena  was  ringing  the  bell  with  personal  insistence  in 
every  peal.  Aggressive  and  persistent  and  needlessly  pro- 
longed was  Aunt  Serena's  bell-ringing.  Every  stroke  of  the 
clapper  enhanced  the  joys  of  bed.  Finally,  she  roused 
herself  for  the  plunge  into  the  frigid  outer  air,  incited  by 
Grandfather's  large  mellow  voice,  calling  in  the  first-floor 
hall: 

"All  aboard!  All  aboard  for  breakfast!" 


WINTER  WEATHER  75 

He  had  already  met  and  conquered  the  getting-up 
ordeal  with  that  fortitude  characteristic  of  grown-ups, 
and  was  now  cozily  ensconced  on  the  central  register, 
blasts  of  heat  beneath  him,  and  exulting  in  his  office  as 
rouser  of  the  sleeping.  In  the  dining-room  a  newly-made 
fire  of  curly  blue  flames  awaited  him,  and  the  sunny  break- 
fast table.  Far  away  as  the  Elysian  Fields  did  that  scene 
appear  to  the  little  third-story  inhabitant. 

To  this  final  summons,  Rue,  curling  her  toes  together  on 
the  breezy  floor  as  she  congealed  into  her  under-flannels 
would  respond  with  a  half-hearted  "All  aboard."  This 
feeble  cry,  if  delivered  in  good  faith,  meant  that  she  was 
embarked  on  the  pell-mell  voyage  for  breakfast.  But  the 
period  of  deep  silence  which  once  followed  that  discon- 
solate peep,  "All  aboard,"  aroused  Aunt  Serena's  sus- 
picion. On  that  fateful  morning  (when  the  porch  thermom- 
eter stood  at  ten  below  zero),  she  found  Rue  backslidden, 
peacefully  asleep  between  the  effeminate  blankets,  her 
stockings  half  pulled  on,  and  the  neglected  petticoat  mak- 
ing a  surprised  O  of  itself  upon  the  floor.  It  was  the  one 
time  when  Rue's  courage  failed  he :  after  the  austere  leap 
had  been  perpetrated,  but  it  sadly  shook  Aunt  Serena's 
confidence  in  the  honesty  of  that  should  be  significant  re- 
sponse, "All  aboard." 

There  came  milder  days  in  the  winter  season,  when, 
thoroughly  hooded  and  leggined,  one  was  allowed  to 
play  out-of-doors  a  whole  afternoon  or  morning.  During 
the  thawy  part  of  the  day  a  pleasant  retreat  was  to  be 
found  in  the  lee  of  the  woodpile,  on  the  south  side  of  the 
barn.  Here  one  could  sit  in  the  sun  on  Grandfather's  half- 


76  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

sawn  log,  sniffling  the  savor  of  sawdust  and  snow  and 
hearing  the  icicles  drip-drip  in  a  sociable  way  from  the 
barn  eaves.  One  was  absolutely  secluded  from  mankind. 
The  south  wall  of  the  barn  looked  away  from  the  house 
up  to  the  everlasting  hills.  Near  at  hand  one  could  only  see 
the  apple-tree  where  the  thrushes  build  their  nest,  a  kindly 
brother,  and  the  Cliffs- Where-Columbine-Hangs,  and  a 
great  arch  of  blue,  blue  sky  touching  the  white-bosomed 
hilltops.  On  one  of  these  balmy  blue  and  white  days,  Mr. 
Boscoway  was  sawing  wood  for  Grandfather.  Mr.  Bosco- 
way  was  a  gray-haired  gentleman  and  a  deacon  hi  the 
church,  and  his  profession  might  be  described  as  that  of  a 
visiting-gardener.  Rue  regarded  him  as  a  personage  of 
exalted  importance,  notwithstanding  the  lowly  duties  he 
performed  in  their  stable-house  and  garden.  He  knew  more 
than  Grandfather  did  about  when  to  get  out  the  English 
violets  under  the  frames  and  at  what  season  the  grape- 
vines should  be  pruned.  There  was  one  majestic  function 
he  performed  that  constituted  an  annual  feast-day  of  its 
own,  like  Fourth  of  July  and  Thanksgiving,  those  sublime 
peaks  that  dominate  the  interminable  steppes  between. 
Mr.  Boscoway  bore  a  tall,  an  immensely  tall,  pole,  swathed 
with  cloths  at  the  top  and  flaming  like  some  Homeric 
beacon.  Wanded  with  this  fierce  emblem,  he  went  his 
flaring  way,  burning  out  of  house  and  home  whole  popula- 
tions of  evil  caterpillars  that  feUVrithing  into  a  fiery  doom 
from  their  high  cities  in  the  apple-trees.  Rue,  shuddering 
with  mingled  pity  and  austerity,  trailed  hi  the  wake  of  this 
magnificent  devastation. 

Mr.  Boscoway  was  not  able  to  work  rapidly  on  account 


WINTER  WEATHER  77 

of  rheumatism,  and  when  he  rested  he  took  out  little 
messy  books  from  his  pocket  to  read.  These  he  hid  with 
an  embarrassed  air  when  Justinian  came  down  the  walk 
to  inspect  his  work.  Once  he  read  aloud  to  Rue  from  one 
of  these  same  crumpled  books,  and  it  was  a  very  interest- 
ing passage  about  a  Lady  Gwendolen  Fortescue  and  a 
black-hearted  villain  with  an  unpleasant  habit  of  hissing 
through  his  teeth.  The  passage  ended  something  like  this: 

"  And  the  marble  halls  of  that  princely  mansion  of  woe 
were  stained  with  the  scarlet  blood  of  one  whom  the  gods 
had  dowered  with  their  fatal  gift  of  beauty  surpassing 
great." 

Often  in  her  little  West  Room  Rue  used  to  chant  this 
passage  in  a  mournful  recitative,  gazing  at  her  sunburned 
small  face  till  it  seemed  to  resemble  the  face  of  Lady 
Gwendolen^  and  the  tears  would  fill  her  eyes  at  the  thought 
of  that  scarlet  blood,  "  and  the  lovely  young  life  spilled  in 
its  flowery  prime." 


IX 
MR.  BOSCOWAY  DISCOURSES 

MR.  BOSCOWAY  had  haughty  and  exclusive 
habits  and  declined  Justinian's  invitation  to 
partake  of  the  family  dinner.  Justinian  always 
invited  him,  and  Mr.  Boscoway  always  declined.  He  pre- 
ferred to  sit  on  the  sawhorse  by  the  woodpile  or  if  the  wind 
was  very  sharp,  on  the  wheelbarrow  in  the  barn  and  there  he, 
enwrapped  in  aloofness,  ate  mysterious  food  from  a  tin- 
pail  and  a  paper  bag.  Rue  yearned  from  the  bottom  of  her 
heart  for  the  day  to  come  when  she  would  be  bidden,  nay. 
urged, —  to  share  one  of  these  mysterious  delectable  tin- 
pail  repasts.  She  stood  in  the  big  barn-door  or  peered  in  at 
the  stable  window,  her  small  face  in  its  red  flannel  hood 
luminous  with  suppressed  desire.  But  Mr.  Boscoway, 
unregarding,  wiped  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  long 
gray  mustache  and  continued  his  solitary  meal,  alternating 
between  huge  bites  from  an  unknown  edible  artfully  con- 
cealed in  his  shaggy  hand  and  huge  gulps  of  an  unknown 
drinkable  from  the  little  tin-pail. 

Rue  left  the  dinner  table  as  early  as  was  compatible  with 
appetite,  not  so  early  as  to  arouse  undue  questioning, 
hooded  herself  and  slipped  out  of  the  house.  She  threaded 
her  way  between  cavernous  paths  bordered  with  heaped 
snow.  She  reached  the  woodpile  and  Mr.  Boscoway. 

78 


MR.  BOSCOWAY  DISCOURSES  79 

Good  fortune  favored  her  for  he  still  dined,  comfortably 
ensconced  in  the  sun.  He  had  been  clearing  paths  and  his 
little  tin-pail  sat  secretively  on  the  snow-shovel  by  his  side. 
The  woodpile  was  an  attractive  rendezvous,  with  its 
seclusion  and  freshness  and  unlimited  prospect  of  far 
blue  hills  frosted  with  snow  and  penciled  with  faint 
shadows.  The  dining-room  with  its  fire  of  small  coals, 
pallid  in  the  noonday  sunlight,  the  litter  of  Justine's  blocks 
in  the  sewing-room,  Aunt  Serena's  darning  things,  Grand- 
father's books  and  the  faded  Persian  rug,  seemed  dingy  to 
dreariness  by  contrast. 

Rue  sat  herself  timidly  down,  not  so  near  Mr.  Boscoway 
as  to  show  fawning  anxiety  nor  so  far  as  to  suggest  dull 
indifference.  Mr.  Boscoway  seldom  opened  conversation. 
That  burden  generally  fell  on  Rue.  He  munched  in  silence. 

"  I  think  this  snowy  weather  gives  a  person  good  appe- 
tites," Rue  threw  out  genially. 

"  It  do  that,"  responded  Mr.  Boscoway,  after  another 
larger  bite. 

Silence  again. 

"  I  like  to  eat  outdoors,"  remarked  Rue,  with  cajoling 
enthusiasm. 

"  Do  you  now  ?  "  came  from  the  obtuse  gentleman  of  the 
dinner-pail. 

Rue  moved  a  little  nearer  on  her  log  and  divested  her- 
self of  her  mittens.  They  dangled  helplessly  from  the  braid 
by  which  prudent  Aunt  Serena  attached  them  to  Rue's 
volatile  person. 

"You  couldn't  eat  with  your  mittens  on,  could  you,  Mr. 
Boscoway  ?  "  She  folded  her  bare  hands  in  patient  hunger. 


80  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

*  Ypu  might  get  wool  into  your  mouth,  mightn't  you,  Mr. 
Boscoway?  But  sometimes  I'm  hungry  enough  not  to 
mind  a  little  woolly  taste." 

"You  ben't  a  leetle  mite  hungry  this  foresame  minute,  be 
you  ?  "asked  he,  his  intelligence  beginning  to  stir. 

"  I  think  I  could  eat  a  mouthful  or  two.  The  sun  is  so 
bright,"  answered  Rue,  with  a  gigantic  effort  to  restrain 
alacrity. 

"  How  would  one  of  these  here  strike  you  ?  " 

A  little  smile  crept  around  Mr.  Boscoway's  face,  begin- 
ning in  the  corners  of  his  eyes  and  hiding  itself  finally  in 
the  umbrageous  thickets  of  his  beard.  He  handed  over  a 
substantial  copper-colored  object,  of  a  twisted  design  and 
invitingly  sugared  over.  Rue  accepted  the  tribute  with 
trembling  fingers.  Other  people's  food,  cooked  in  other 
people's  kitchens,  had  a  weird  and  recherche  interest.  If 
only  Mr.  Boscoway  would  invite  her  to  quaff  from  that 
unseen  beverage  her  happiness  would  be  complete. 

"A  little  drink  of  something  would  help  this  go  down," 
she  remarked  ingratiatingly.  Somehow  or  other,  that  did 
not  sound  just  right.  It  was  the  kind  of  remark  that  induced 
odd  subterranean  signals  for  silence  from  Aunt  Serena. 
She  modestly  hastened  to  add: 

"An  icicle  would  hardly  do.  You  have  to  suck  so  hard 
before  it  melts. " 

Mr.  Boscoway,  in  characteristic  blinking  silence,  passed 
her  the  tin-pail.  His  long  fingers,  combing  his  crinky 
whiskers,  expressed  several  shades  of  humorous  apprecia- 
tion. 

A  black  liquid  was  in  the  pail.  It  tasted  cold  and  bitter. 


MR.  BOSCOWAY  DISCOURSES  81 

Rue  returned  the  beaker  with  a  saddened  medicinal  smile. 

"  It  has  a  proper  taste  on  to  it  ?  "  inquired  the  owner  so- 
licitously. 

"I  think  I  could  learn  to  like  it,  thank  you,  Mr.  Bos- 
coway, "  answered  Rue  with  sage  yet  courteous  reservation. 
She  felt  that  she  had  heroically  redeemed  her  previous 
conversational  slip. 

When  the  repast  was  over,  Mr.  Boscoway  pulled  out  one 
of  his  crumpled  books  and  began  to  read. 

"  Is  there  anything  about  Lady  Gwendolen  ?  "  asked  Rue, 
breaking  a  short  period  of  self-controlled  silence.  To 
watch  another  person  read  is  not  over-diverting.  Mr. 
Boscoway's  lips  puffed  out  and  sucked  in  until  he  had 
labored  through  a  mute  syllabification  of  the  chapter. 
Deliberately  he  folded  the  book  away  into  an  inner  pocket 
of  his  groggy  waistcoat.  Rue  wished  she  might  be  pro- 
vided with  such  limp  foldable  literature,  that  could  be 
snugly  stuffed  within  her  blouses  for  reference  at  any  time. 

"  Lady  Gwendolen  be  gathered  to  her  fathers, "  said  Mr. 
Boscoway  with  funereal  gravity.  "  Poor  gell,  she  did  make 
out  to  have  a  tormented  time  to  it  from  the  fust  send  off, 
some  way  or  nuther.  " 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Rue,  "  and  so  passing  fair  that  men  bowed 
down  and  worshiped  her.  But  wasn't  it  wicked,  like  bow- 
ing down  to  Peor  and  Baalim  ?  " 

"  Who  in  tunkett  be  them  ?  " 

"Why,  don't  you  know  ? 

'Peor  and  Baalim 
Forsake  their  temples  dim 
With  that  twice-battered  god  of  Palestine, — '  " 


82  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Mr.  Boscoway  did  not  seem  to  recognize  the  allusion. 
The  conversation  rambled  amiably  on  till  it  reached  the 
subject  of  mothers,  on  which  Mr.  Boscoway  displayed 
woeful  ignorance. 

"By  fire,  it  mought  be  jest  yestiddy, "  remarked  he, 
"that  I  turn  to  and  set  in  this  very  same  spot  with  Miss 
Dainy  on  the  log  beside  of  me,  like  you  be  now. " 

He  combed  his  beard  mournfully,  regarding  Rue  with 
small  retrospective  eyes. 

"Who  is  Miss  Dainy?" 

"  My  soul,  hain't  your  grandsir  or  no  one  never  gossip- 
talked  to  you  about  or  consarnin'  Miss  Dainy  ?  They  uster 
have  a  picter  on  her,  clip  and  clean,  hanging  full-bigness 
in  the  hallway,  jest  as  you  get  good  and  in. " 

"  There  is  no  picture  there  now, "  affirmed  Rue. 

Mr.  Boscoway  looked  darkly  into  his  beard. 

"  Them's  master  works, "  she  heard  him  murmur  dis- 
approvingly. 

Then,  peering  at  Rue  obliquely,  he  spoke  in  a  sepulchral 
whisper: 

"  Hain't  ary  living  soul  or  body  tolt  you  of  that  mother  o' 
yourn,  my  little  missy  ?  " 

"  I  never  had  a  mother, "  said  Rue  earnestly. 

"  I  swan ! "  exclaimed  he. 

"It's  like  this,"  said  Rue,  "Some  people  have  mothers 
and  some  people  are  mothers  and  the  rest  are  just  great- 
aunts  or  loose  children.  I'm  a  loose  children  —  I  mean,  a 
loose  child.  So  Aunt  Serena  and  Grandfather  take  care  of 
me." 

Mr.  Boscoway  seemed  to  comprehend  but  vaguely  as  yet. 


MR.  BOSCOWAY  DISCOURSES  83 

"How  up-and-comes  that  you  have  a  grandsir  if  you 
wasn't  fetched  into  this  here  wilderness-wori'  by  no  mother 
or  father,  like  the  rest-part  of  human  kin  and  kind?" 

Rue  swept  aside  this  objection  as  pointless. 

"  He  was  born  my  grandfather,  don't  you  understand  ?  " 

"  I  cal'late  I'm  gitting  to  understand,  'twixt  you  and  me 
and  the  pump.  Thank  you  kindly.  But  will  you  explicate, " 
he  asked  meekly,  "  how  in  tunkett  you  figger  out  you  did 
get  borned  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  get  born, "  replied  Rue  patiently.  "  I  happened 
on  the  door-step. '' 

"  Gosh-A'mighty, "  blurted  the  visiting  gardener,  be- 
tween the  back  of  his  hand  and  his  beard.  "How  dasst 
her  grandsir  be  a-keeping  of  her  in  sech  thick  o'  igger- 
ance  ? " 

Rue's  eyes  filled  with  tears  at  this  unmerited  reproach  to 
Grandfather. 

"  It  was  Grandfather  told  me  all  about  it,  —  and  I 
remembered  a  little,  besides. " 

"  If  it  ain't  fit  to  raise  the  dead !  What  do  you  remember 
on,  little  missy  ?  " 

"  I  remember  the  meadow-rue  so  tall  and  moonshiny  and 
the  spider-webs.  And  I  remember  the  robin,  too.  I  don't 
mean  I'd  recognize  the  very  robin,  for  robins  look  so  much 
alike,  don't  they,  Mr.  Boscoway  ?  But  that  one  and  I  had 
a  little  quar'l  because  we  both  wanted  the  same  lady- 
bug  —  or  maybe  it  was  a  worm.  I  do  love  to  play  with 
worms,  they  are  such  clean  little  things.  I  like  to  shut  them 
up  in  my  hand  and  see  their  pink  heads  sticking  through 
my  fingers  trying  to  get  out. " 


84  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Mr.  Boscoway  muttered  to  himself  while  Rue  reveled 
in  recollections  of  worms. 

"Proper  sing'lar!"  he  muttered  several  times.  Then  he 
looked  at  her  and  his  eyes  were  misty  and  tender. 

"You  lay  this  to  heart  what  I  tell  you  on.  There  be'n't 
no  folks,  I  don't  care  who  they  be  in  this  here  wilderness- 
worl'  but  has  mother  and  father,  both  on  'em.  No,  not 
ary  one. " 

Rue  was  impressed  by  his  air  of  conviction. 

"  Not  ary  one  that  ever  lived  ?  "  she  asked,  her  blue  eyes 
large  with  the  thought. 

"  There  was  one  in  old  ancient  times  I  heern  tell  of  in  the 
Book,  that  hadn't  none.  Named  after  this  pattern,  Mel- 
chizzy  Decker.  And  it  says  true  and  solemn  like  this: 
'Withouten  father  nor  withouten  mother,  having  neither 
beginning  of  days  nor  end  of  life. " 

"Perhaps  I'm  a  sister  to  Melchizzy  Decker.  Was  it  a 
little  boy  or  a  little  girl?" 

"  He  was  a  king,  or  some  sech  business. " 

"  Then  I'm  a  king's  sister,  a  princess, "  cried  Rue. 

Rising  from  her  lowly  seat  she  executed  several  stately 
seuls-pas  between  the  woodpile  and  the  snow-drifts. 

"  Now  I'm  going  to  build  a  king,  a  snow  king.  And  it's 
going  to  be  a  image  of  Melchizzy  Decker,  having  neither 
beginning  of  days  nor  end  of  life. " 


THE  HAUNTING  THOUGHT 

MR.  BOSCOWAY  had  an  enormous  shovel  with 
which  he  hurled  great  cakes  of  snow  from  the 
sidewalks  to  the  drifted  lawns.  Rue  had  a  small 
shovel  with  which  she  followed  in  Mr.  Boscoway's  wake 
and  completed  his  task.  He  worked  in  a  large  impression- 
istic manner.  When  they  were  tired  they  sat  down  on  their 
shovels  to  rest  and  took  turns  in  telling  each  other  stories. 
Mr.  Boscoway  was  a  tantalizing  conversationalist.  He 
was  addicted  to  unfinished  tales,  to  mysterious  allusions 
and  to  archaic  phrases.  He  never  condescended  to  explain. 
Rue  was  grateful  for  such  crumbs  as  she  could  digest. 
When  Grandfather  came  briskly  stamping  down  the  alk, 
shawled  against  the  cold,  Mr.  Boscoway  casually  arose  and 
gazing  skyward,  made  sage  predictions  as  to  the  morrow's 
weather. 

Mr.  Boscoway  alluded  several  times  to  a  certain  Miss 
Dainy  who  had  once  lived  at  Penrith  House,  where 
at  the  present  time  Rue  disported  herself  in  imaginative 
loneliness.  It  must  have  been  centuries  ago  when  Grand- 
father was  young.  He  and  Miss  Dainy  had  ridden 
horseback  together,  "  skooting  off  •  downwards  of  the 
lane  as  careless  as  two  childer. "  Miss  Dainy  had 
chatted  with  Mr.  Boscoway,  for  it  appeared  that  even 

85 


86  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

at  that  remote  epoch  he  had  tended  the  place  at  Penrith 
House. 

"  It  mought  be  just  yestiddy  that  I  turn  to  and  there 
set  Miss  Dainy  on  the  log  beside  of  me,  like  you  be 
now. " 

The  thought  of  Miss  Dainy  who  had  set  on  the  log  as  it 
might  be  yesterday  haunted  Rue  from  that  time  forth. 

Mr.  Boscoway  was  a  personage  whose  utterances  carried 
weight.  He  talked  seldom  but  when  he  did  talk  his  language 
was  rambling  and  roomy.  His  very  appearance  was  dis- 
cursive as  an  archaeological  monograph.  He  was  long  and 
stooping,  with  hairy  fingers  and  a  long  forelock  carefully 
combed  awry  to  cover  a  bald  forehead.  This  long-suffering 
forelock  could  never  be  effectually  trained  away  from 
heredity  and  frequently  fell  out  of  position  altogether  and 
trailed  across  one  eye.  Mr.  Bosco way's  long  pink  nose 
presided  over  an  abundance  of  crimped  beard,  which 
covered  his  shirt  bosom  and  must  have  meant  a  great 
saving  to  him  of  clean  linen.  His  small  eyes  looked  at 
you  obliquely  as  if  to  catch  you  unaware  and  they  were 
gleamy  at  the  corners,  nourishing  jokes  too  rich  «to  be 
divulged.  He  spoke  hi  foot-notes  and  marginal  annotation. 
He  was  a  good  and  a  proud  gentleman:  good  because  he 
was  chosen  to  pass  the  collection  plate  in  church,  the  plate 
that  clinked  with  myriad  pennies.  Proud,  because  he  se- 
lected (as  before  noted)  to  eat  alone  in  a  wheelbarrow. 
He  had  a  peculiar  distaste  for  the  conventions  of  saluta- 
tion and  farewell.  At  a  pinch,  when  forced  to  respond  to 
your  Good-morning,  he  uttered  majestically,  "Yes." 
In  a  similar  emergency  at  nightfall  if  you  inadvertently 


THE  HAUNTING  THOUGHT  87 

tendered  him  Good-night,  he  eked  out  a  meager  "So?" 
These  cabalistic  utterances  puzzled  new-comers  and  made 
the  swishing  jeweled  young  ladies  call  him  "  quaint. " 
He  did  not  relish  being  thanked  and  when  put  to  it  by 
some  unusually  gushing  person,  morosely  flung  out; 
"You're  a  Welshman." 

This  stoical  reticence  endued  him  to  Rue's  imagination 
with  a  prodigious  air  of  profundity. 

She  could  gain  little  more  information  from  him  on 
the  subject  of  the  mysterious  Miss  Dainy.  When  she  beat 
about  the  bush  in  her  most  skilful  manner,  he  peeked  at 
her  obliquely  and  barricaded  himself  behind  his  secretive 
smile. 

"Could  you  tell  me,  please,  about  the  color  of  Miss 
Dainy 's  hair  ?  " 

"  Mebbe  I  kin  tell  you  and  mebbe  I  caynt, "  he  responded, 
hacking  away  at  some  small  brush  for  kindling  wood. 
Between  the  pauses  of  his  hatchet  and  the  pursings  of  his 
lips  Rue  gathered  up  a  basketful  of  fragments.  Her  men- 
tal and  physical  operations,  by  the  way,  were  identical, 
for  she  was  gathering  chips  for  Ellen's  fire,  as  bidden 
by  Aunt  Serena. 

Miss  Dainy  had  lovely  hair  like  ropes  of  flax  and  she 
used  to  sit  and  braid  it  in  the  sun.  She  went  rowing  on  the 
river  of  "  neat  moonshiny  nights  "  and  young  fellers  "  come 
a-sparking  of  her.  "  It  was  a  firefly  pastime  that  awakened 
pleasing  though  vague  pictures.  Was  that  the  reason  Rue 
had  never  been  allowed  to  set  foot  in  a  boat  on  the  river  ? 
Once  Miss  Dainy  had  stood  on  the  stone  wall  at  the  end 
of  the  long  grassy  lane  and  had  thrown  kisses  to  some  one. 


88  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Grandfather  used  to  go  and  look  for  her  twice  a  year,  but 
she  never  came  back. 

How  much  of  this  sprang  from  Rue's  fertile  fancy  and 
how  much  was  wrenched  from  Mr.  Boscoway's  meager 
lips,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say.  Rue  thought  very,  very 
hard,  so  hard  that  her  temples  hurt  and  her  eyes  swelled 
and  remembered  how  Grandfather  once  went  away  from 
Penrith  House.  He  carried  a  long  bag  in  his  hand  and 
walked  down  the  faded  lane.  Aunt  Serena  had  packed  the 
bag  for  him  and  it  had  taken  them  both  two  days.  Rue 
remembered  the  shining  cuffs  and  collars  that  ringed  them- 
selves into  one  corner  and  the  black  Sunday  coat  making  a 
central  square  around  which  the  small  articles  roguishly  hid 
themselves.  The  open  bag  must  have  been  about  on  a 
level  with  her  curly  head  as  she  sat  playing  on  the  floor, 
so  of  course  she  had  every  opportunity  for  minute  obser- 
vation. 

At  the  end  of  the  frozen  lane,  Grandfather  took  her  up  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  her  good-by  and  they  both  cried  a 
few  tears.  Grandfather  because  Rue's  cheek  was  so  little 
and  soft  and  Rue  because  Grandfather's  was  so  big  and 
rough.  Then  Rue  remembered  walking  home  beside  Aunt 
Serena,  stepping  carefully  from  peak  to  peak  of  the  pale 
frozen  ground.  When  they  sat  down  to  dinner  Grandfather 
was  not  there  to  carve  the  chicken  and  Rue  said  over  and 
over,  as  the  amazing  absence  sank  deeply  into  her  spirit, 
"  Grandfather  took  bag,  goned  away. " 

Then,  as  enthroned  on  her  own  basket  of  chips,  she 
probed  still  further  into  the  past,  other  detached  memories 
swam  to  mind.  How  Grandfather  came  home  one  day  and 


THE  HAUNTING  THOUGHT  89 

sat  down  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  porch  to  rest,  before  he 
climbed  up.  The  ground  had  been  hard  and  peaked  when 
he  went  away,  and  when  he  sat  down  on  the  step  the  grass 
was  green  in  the  circle  and  Rue  was  picking  dandelions. 
She  was  a  little  afraid  of  him  at  first,  for  she  could  not  quite 
remember  who  he  was.  She  ran  to  Aunt  Serena  who  was 
up-stairs  airing  the  beds : 

"  Ve'y  ta'ed  man  sitting  on  'teps.  Oh,  very  awful  tar'd. " 

And  the  tired  man  was  Grandfather.  That  was  the  last 
time  Justinian  went  away  from  home.  Rue  remembered 
Aunt  Serena's  saying: 

"  Justinian,  what  have  you  been  doing  all  these  months  ?  " 

And  the  answer: 

"Seeking,  seeking,  seeking.  High  and  low,  hither  and 
thither,  up  and  down. " 

Had  Grandfather  been  playing  a  long,  long  game  of  hide- 
and-go-seek  with  some  one  and  was  that  the  reason  he  was 
so  tired  and  sat  so  still  in  the  easy-chair  and  was  cold  even 
when  the  sun  was  shining  and  shut  his  eyes  after  breakfast 
arid  spoke  not  a  word? 

Rue  came  up  to  him  very  gently  and  sat  on  the  floor  be- 
tween his  legs,  with  her  head  against  his  knees,  so  as  to  com- 
fort him. 

"  I  just  love  oo  knees,  G'andfather.  Rue  won't  make  oo 
p'ay  with  her  such  long  time,  G'andfather.  Nice  dear 
knees!" 

All  of  these  memories  or  parts  of  them,  broken,  inco- 
herent, half  intelligible,  swam  struggling  back  to  the  six- 
year  old  consciousness,  as  Rue  respectfully  followed  Mr. 
Boscoway's  stooping  steps  about  the  barn  and  outhouses. 


90  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

The  grass  showed  faintly  green  where  she  had  dug  the 
snow  away  for  Melchizzy  Decker's  heroic  legs. 

"  She  acts  like  we  were  going  to  kitch  onto  one  of  them 
early  thaws  they  tell  about, "  remarked  Mr.  Boscoway  to 
Justinian  when  the  latter  took  his  short  constitutional 
turn  at  the  ax  and  snow-shovel. 

"  And  remember, "  he  whispered  hoarsely  to  Rue  around 
an  angle  of  the  barn.  She  stood  on  a  box  sticking  coals  for 
buttons  into  Melchizzy 's  gigantic  waist.  "Remember  I 
hain't  tolt  you  a  snipe  of  nothing.  You  drew  it  outer  me, 
the  hull  cohoot,  and  there's  considerable  on  it  come  outen 
your  head-imaginin'. " 

Rue  strained  a  point  and  reached  Melchizzy  Decker's 
top  button. 

"  I  know,  Mr.  Boscoway.  It's  like  a  fairy  story  and  the 
best  parts  you  have  to  imagine.  This  was  a  crying  one  and  I 
don't  understand  how  to  finish  it  happy  ever  after. " 

She  would  not  for  the  world  have  betrayed  the  confi- 
dences of  that  good  and  proud  man.  She  had  long  ago  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  there  were  invisible  secrets  hovering 
just  above  her  head,  far  above  Justine's.  Some  day  she 
might  grow  up  to  them  and  look  at  them  face  to  face. 
After  she  went  to  bed  at  night,  these  secrets  slipped  down- 
stairs, stood  between  the  knees  of  grown-up  people  and 
otherwise  manifested  themselves.  One  night  Rue  was 
afflicted  with  a  burning  desire  for  water.  She  came  to  the 
head  of  the  front  stairs  and  hung  over  the  banisters.  The 
door  was  open  below  and  this  was  what  she  heard : 

Aunt  Serena  to  Grandfather:  "  Justinian,  if  only  you  had 
not—" 


THE  HAUNTING  THOUGHT  91 

The  remainder  was  lost  in  a  spurting  of  the  fire. 

Grandfather  to  Aunt  Serena :  "If  —  if  —  if !  What 
might  have  been. 

"Who  knows?" 

Aunt  Serena:  "In  God's  Providence  all  things  are  per- 
haps for  the  best. '' 

Grandfather  (  bitterly  ) :  "In  God's  Providence.  (Here 
he  thrust  at  the  fire  savagely  with  his  poker  and  Rue  could 
not  hear.  ) 

Aunt  Serena :  "  Do  you  not  see  now  —  are  you  not  sorry 
f or  that  last— " 

Grandfather  ( putting  on  the  blower ) :  "  There  is  no  use, 
Serena,  in  forever  opening  closed  doors. " 

Aunt  Serena :  "  Every  secret  must  finally  be  unearthed. 
Some  one  will,  without  our  knowledge,  enlighten  the  child.  " 

Grandfather :  "  No  one  will  dare.  No  one  can,  for  no  one 
knows. " 

Rue  had  herself  often  excavated  in  the  garden  to  see 
what  secret  treasure  it  might  hold.  She  had  knocked  at  the 
Silent  Door.  Were  they,  also,  interested  in  such  problems  ? 
And  was  there  a  Child,  an  unenlightened  child,  locked  away 
in  some  dark  closet  ?  How  full  of  mysteries  life  was !  No 
wonder  they  needed  to  sit  up  so  late  and  talk  so  earnestly. 

Aunt  Serena :  "  But  what  if  She  —  " 

Rue  was  at  once  certain  that  Aunt  Serena's  She  meant 
-  some  other  person  than  the  Child.  How  strangely  heavy  the 
word  was  on  her  lips. 

"  What  if  She  should  come  back  ?  " 

Grandfather:  "Out  of  the  depths!  God,  —  " 

Rue  thought  Grandfather  must  be  praying,  for  there 


92  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

followed  a  long  cavernous  monotone  and  often  he  coughed 
as  if  he  were  choking.  It  was  a  terrible  sound.  Rue  had 
been  told  not  to  interrupt  a  conversation.  At  last  they 
seemed  to  have  done.  She  descended  a  few  more  steps  and 
proffered  her  request.  Aunt  Serena  promptly  complied 
for  the  children  were  encouraged  to  drink  many  drinks  of 
water  and  considered  it  a  distinct  act  of  virtue  on  their 
part  to  demonstrate  a  lively  thirst. 

"  What  are  you  lingering  for  ?  "  asked  Aunt  Serena,  about 
to  close  the  door  from  which  streamed  firelight,  lamplight 
and  Delphic  utterances. 

"  Please  not  to  shut  the  door. "  wailed  Rue,  "  it  shuts  me 
out  from  coziness  and  lovy-ness  and  everything. " 

"We  love  you  just  the  same  when  the  door  is  shut," 
said  Aunt  Serena  firmly,  "  and  I'll  love  you  a  little  more  if 
you'll  put  on  your  carpet  slippers  next  time  you  traipse 
down  those  draughty  stairs. " 

Rue  did  not  just  see  the  connection  between  love  and 
carpet  slippers.  Aunt  Serena's  love  was  a  ponderable 
quantity.  It  could  be  meted  or  withheld  or  even  doled  out 
in  drops,  like  bitter  medicine  at  the  end  of  a  glass  tube. 

Grandfather  indulgently  left  the  door  open  and  after  a 
while  had  the  weakness  to  creep  up-stairs  to  see  if  Rue  were 
warm  and  comfortable  in  bed.  She  was  still  awake  and  a 
young  moon's  light  flitted  vaguely  through  the  West  Room. 
It  shone  on  Grandfather's  deeply-marked  forehead  as  he 
sat  on  the  edge  of  Rue's  bed. 

"Did  I  ever  have  a  mother  or  am  I  like  Melchizzy 
Decker  ?  "  asked  Rue,  sitting  up  and  cuddling  close  under 
Grandfather's  chin.  She  felt  his  throat  swell  out  to  a  lump. 


THE  HAUNTING  THOUGHT  93 

He  knew  that  the  hour  had  struck  for  that  question  and  the 
answer  could  no  longer  be  averted. 

"  Dear,  we  don't  know,  we  can't  tell  you  anything  about 
your  mother  —  or  your  father. " 

The  last  two  words  were  stern  and  dry.  His  thin  throat 
twitched.  "  I  will  be  both  mother  and  father  to  you, 
dearie. " 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  like  —  like  him, "  sobbed  Rue, 
"having  neither  beginning  of  life  nor  end  of  days.  It's  a 
little  bit  forlorn.  Excuse  me,  Grandfather,  I  don't  mean  to 
be  unpolite,  but  I  want  a  real  mother.  If  it  would  be  per- 
fectly convenient  to  you,  please,  Grandfather.  " 

Rue  could  be  "  pretty-and-polite  "  when  she  tried.  Her 
pleading  voice  and  her  two  vague  dimples  were  irresistible 
to  one's  heart.  Yet  Grandfather  steeled  himself  against  her 
softness.  He  was  a  stern  man  when  his  heart  was  bursting. 

"  I  have  spoken  definitively, "  he  replied.  "  We  will  not 
broach  this  matter  again. " 

When  he  employed  such  words  as  these  and  when  his 
lips  were  so  long  and  hard,  Rue  knew  that  nothing  availed. 
She  drew  a  sharp  breath,  trying  not  to  cry.  How  easy  it 
was  to  make  mistakes  and  be  naughty  and  displease  Grand- 
father. He  patted  her  cheek  and  started  as  if  to  go.  She 
could  not  bear  to  have  him  go  and  leave  her  with  a  bitter 
taste  in  her  mouth. 

"Don't  go,  Grandfather,  please.  I  am  lonely  with  the 
moon  looking  in  at  me. " 

Grandfather  sat  down  again  and  Rue  told  him  about  the 
statue  of  Melchizzy  Decker  and  how  sorry  she  was  that  she 
had  not  put  his  head  on  before  it  got  dark. 


94  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  For  now  he  is  stiffening  out  there  in  the  white  empty 
night,  like  a  beheaded  person,  with  his  head  lying  beside 
him.  And  it  is  rather  unfair  to  be  executed  before  even  you 
are  born. " 

They  finally  decided,  however,  that  a  headless  snow  king 
would  be  incompletely  equipped  for  thoughts  of  any  sort, 
and  that  the  detached  head  had  no  reasonable  cause  to 
complain,  as  it  had  never  learned  its  function  of  crowning 
the  shoulders. 

Then  Rue  gathered  up  her  courage  for  the  really  impor- 
tant question,  the  question  that  had  been  haunting  her  for 
days.  Grandfather's  beaming  countenance  augured  hope- 
fully. 

"I  want  to  say  something  else.  No  one  told  me  but  I 
dreamed  it.  There  was  a  Miss  Dainy  who  used  to  sit  on  the 
end  of  a  log,  with  hair  like  ropes  of  flax,  as  it  might  be 
yesterday.  Please  tell  me  about  her,  if  it  won't  make  your 
teeth  too  tired,  Grandfather. " 

Grandfather  tore  himself  away  from  her  and  even  in  the 
uncertain  snow-light  of  the  West  Room  Rue  could  see  his 
knees  tremble. 

She  thought  he  was  very  angry  with  her  and  would  give 
her  the  horrible  whole  of  some  bristling  punitive  declen- 
sion to  commit  to  memory  in  righteous  commemoration. 

Grandfather  thought.  There  was  a  time  when  he  would 
have  breathed  a  silent  prayer  to  his  God  for  strength  and 
wisdom.  But  that  God  of  his  had  turned  away  and  with- 
held His  Presence  from  him.  Justinian  no  longer  prayed. 

"The  child  must  know.  She  is  too  young  to  know. 
Grant  me  to  tell  the  truth.  Spare  me  from  this.  Spare  her 


THE  HAUNTING  THOUGHT  95 

forever.  Bear  with  me  if  I  falsify.  Ah,  teach  me  to  speak  the 
truth." 

At  the  crises  of  life  one's  thoughts  are  nothing  but 
prayers.  No  matter  if  in  calmer  hours  we  philosophize  or 
deny,  at  the  stroke  hour  of  great  passion  our  hearts  flame 
into  prayer. 

"  Grant  me  to  speak  the  truth, "  and  yet  when  he  spoke, 
his  lips  refused.  What  force  within  us,  beside  us,  above  us, 
determines  our  utterances  other  than  we  have  willed  ? 

"Yes,"  cries  the  heart  and  will. 

"No,"  the  lips  syllable. 

"  I  come, "  cries  the  heart  and  will. 

"  I  refuse, "  say  the  cold,  unwilling  lips. 

Our  deepest  self  listens  to  the  lie,  astonished,  dumb. 

The  name  of  Danae  had  not  passed  Justinian's  lips  for 
years.  He  spoke  it  now,  once  only,  and  it  was  as  blood 
wrung  from  his  heart.  But  the  truth,  the  full  truth,  a 
drawn  sword  prevented  it. 

Rue,  notwithstanding  her  suspense,  had  almost  fallen 
asleep  when  Grandfather's  voice  aroused  her.  It  was  deep 
and  doomful,  like  the  church  bell  when  one  is  late. 

"Rue,  it  is  time  for  you  to  know.  My  little,  little  girl, 
has  it  come  to  this  ?  The  truth.  I  will  tell  you  something. 
No,  not  all.  There  was  a  child  in  this  house  once,  long 
before  you  came.  Her  name  was  —  Danae." 

Rue  swallowed  painfully,  for  the  sympathetic  burning 
in  her  throat  hurt  her. 

"She  went  away." 

"  Why  did  she  go  away  ?  Was  she  a  princess  in  disguise 
and  looking  for  her  real  kingdom  ?  " 


96  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Grandfather  knelt  by  the  bed  and  his  hollow  eyes  pierced 
her  like  a  spear.  His  voice  filled  her  with  such  suffocation 
of  feeling  that  she  could  not  intellectually  follow  what  he 
was  saying.  She  could  never  afterwards  recall  it,  because 
all  the  time  she  heard  the  sad  church  bell  saying : 

"  Late,  late,  late.  Never,  never,  never." 

"  If  you  are  sorry  she  is  lost,  let  us  go  and  find  —  her," 
said  Rue,  after  both  had  been  quiet  a  century  or  so.  Grand- 
father raised  his  head. 

"  I  did  not  say  I  was  sorry,"  said  a  cold,  dry  voice  that 
seemed  to  come  from  the  other  side  of  the  room,  "  except 
as  I  grieve  for  all  inevitable  evil." 

"But  I  think  you  are  sorry/'  replied  Rue  gently,  "I 
heard  the  sorriness  calling  right  out  in  your  voice." 

"She  is  lost,"  said  Grandfather.  "Let  us  never  speak 
of  her  again." 

"  I  think  I  understand,"  pondered  Rue.  "  It  is  something 
like  that  poetry  I  learned  from  the  'Household  Book:' ' 

Upon  the  white  sea  sand 

There  sat  a  pilgrim  band, 
Telling  the  losses  that  their  lives  had  known; 

As  evening  loaned  away 

From  breezy  cliff  and  bay 
And  the  strong  tide  went  out  with  ceaseless  moan. 

One  spake  with  quivering  lip 

Of  a  fair  freighted  ship 
And  all  his  household  to  the  deep  gone  down  ; 

But  one  had  wilder  woe 

For  a  fair  face  long  ago 
Lost  in  the  darker  depths  of  a  great  town. 

Grandfather  bowed  his  head  on  Rue's  two  little  clasped 


THE  HAUNTING  THOUGHT  97 

hands,  as  meek  as  any  cherub  before  the  Throne.  It  was 
the  heavenly  understanding  of  the  child,  understanding 
not  whereof  it  speaks. 

"I  will  promise  you  what  you  said,"  Rue  murmured 
into  the  beloved  ear,  "  if  you  will  promise  me  one  promise, 
Grandfather  dear." 

She  lifted  his  head  from  the  pillow  and  held  him  by  her 
hands,  grasping  his  cheeks  in  tiny  fists  of  justice. 

"Will  you  go  with  me  some  day  when  you  have  plenty 
of  time,  Grandfather  dear,  and  find  me  —  a  mother,  in 
the  depths  of  a  great  town?" 

"Perhaps,  some  day,  my  child." 

She  tightened  her  grasp  on  the  cheeks. 

"I  do  not  like  perhapsing,  Grandfather,  so  well  as 
yessing.  Please  say  that  you  will." 

"How  like  and  yet  how  unlike,"  murmured  he  under 
his  breath. 

"Out  loud  so  that  I  can  hear." 

"Yes,  I  will,"  said  Grandfather,  in  a  voice  like  the 
foundations  of  the  hills. 

"Thank  you  every  and  every  so  much,"  smiled  Rue, 
"  and  I  do  not  think  it  will  be  very  much  trouble,  for  there 
are  so  many  people  in  the  depths  of  a  great  town  it  will  be 
easy  to  find  one  mother  among  them  all.  I  will  try  not  to 
be  a  fussy-bug  about  choosing.  Honestly  I  will,  Grand- 
father." 

The  next  moment  Rue  was  asleep. 


XI 
A  PASSAGE  PERILOUS 

IT  was  spring  and  Saturday  morning  and  house- 
cleaning  time,  a  trilogy  of  untrainmeled  joys.  By  a 
week  of  excellent  behavior  Rue  had  earned  a  mor- 
ning of  liberty,  the  fulfillment  of  a  promise  made  at  the 
outset  of  that  week's  precarious  career.  She  bounded  from 
the  breakfast  table  on  a  secret  mission  of  her  own,  a  simple 
act  of  sentiment  which  she  could  not  have  explained.  To 
the  Guest-Chamber  she  flew,  for  a  brief  chat  with  her 
friends  of  the  brook.  She  climbed  upon  a  chair. 

"Good-by.  Do  you  like  me?" 

For  the  hundredth  time  she  sought  the  answer  in  their 
lovely  faces.  The  girl  looked  away  from  her,  timidly,  and 
always  toward  the  boy.  But  the  boy,  with  his  bushy 
hair  escaping  hi  curls  under  his  hat's  rim,  laughed 
at  her  merrily.  To  the  girl  —  Rue  was  sure  this  morning 
she  was  his  sister, —  he  seemed  tenderly  saying:  "Take 
care!" 

But  to  Rue  he  laughed  teasingly,  "  Come  on." 

Rue  tossed  her  head,  imagining  how  she  would  surprise 
him  before  he  had  time  to  catch  her,  by  nimbly  bounding 
from  stone  to  stone.  The  boy's  name  was  Lillo.  She  did 
not  know  how  she  knew,  but  she  knew.  She  had  gone  to 
bed  last  night  ignorant,  and  waked  up  this  morning  aware. 

98 


A  PASSAGE  PERILOUS  99 

Much  wisdom  is  born  of  slumber  and  should  be  accepted 
without  question. 

Her  next  errand  was  to  secure  from  among  her  "im- 
pedimenta," her  bow  and  a  quiver  of  arrows.  These  she 
thrust  through  her  belt.  She  had  at  last  reached  the  back 
porch;  she  was  almost  free.  She  waved  a  switch  of  apple- 
blossoms,  encouraged  an  imaginary  steed,  and  galloped 
down  the  steps,  an  enchanted  prince  after  many  trials 
come  to  his  own.  Aunt  Serena's  practical  voice  interrupted 
her  mood  of  exaltation.  She  was  at  once  reduced  to  the 
ignominy  of  her  proper  sex  and  years. 

"  Come  back  at  once,  Rue.  Pick  up  your  napkin  from 
the  floor  and  put  the  Green  Book  away." 

The  Enchanted  Prince  dejectedly  turned  him  back  to 
attend  to  degrading  household  details.  Yet  in  the  antici- 
pation of  speedy  liberty  her  face  did  not  lose  all  its  bril- 
liance. The  rejected  napkin  and  the  worn  book  were  handled 
with  kindly  condescension  as  relics  of  a  passing  regime. 
The  Green  Book,  however,  proved  fatal,  for  as  Rue  linger- 
ed a  moment  over  its  well-thumbed  pages  Justine  invaded 
the  room.  She  observed  Rue  accoutred  for  battle,  the 
quiver  of  arrows  at  her  belt  and  the  riding-switch  in  hand. 
Justine  entered  a  prompt  and  urgent  plea  that  she  accom- 
pany Rue  on  the  morning  expedition.  Aunt  Serena  lent 
no  unwilling  ear,  for  the  field  would  thus  be  thoroughly 
vacated  for  house-cleaning  operations.  It  was  not  a  clause 
of  the  aforesaid  promise  that  Rue  should  have  her  morning 
unbridled  and  alone.  Rue  was  more  unbridled  in  her 
adventuring  when  absolutely  alone.  But  from  the  child's 
point  of  view  this  chartering  of  Justine  as  her  companion 


100  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

was  a  flagrant  breach  of  faith.  A  morning  of  freedom  and 
Justine  were  incompatible.  Justine  was  three,  was  fat, 
and  waddled.  She  took  the  road  with  caution,  considered 
her  steps,  had  diverse  vagaries  of  taste  and  a  limited 
imagination.  She  delighted  not  in  warlike  pastimes  but  in 
the  sluggish  pursuits  of  peace.  Aunt  Serena  remained 
deaf  to  Rue's  pleading  and  despatched  the  two  children 
forth,  under  the  hollow  simulacrum  of  comradeship.  She 
gave  them  a  bag  of  cookies,  which  Justine  accepted  as  an 
honorarium  to  her  less  ruffled  temper.  Rue,  curling  her 
lip,  allowed  Justine  to  thrust  the  bag  under  her  arm.  Sugar 
cookies  were  a  moral  concession  that  could  not  wipe  out 
iniquity.  Rue  sadly  divested  herself  of  her  martial  equip- 
ment. The  bow  and  arrows,  so  fitting  the  Prince  adven- 
turous, were  not  in  keeping  with  a  nursemaid's  station. 
Aunt  Serena  was  plainly  remorseful  for  she  said  in  mock 
surprise : 

"What!  You  are  going  to  leave  your  pretty  bow  and 
arrow  behind!" 

"  I  do  not  need  them  now,"  returned  Rue  with  reproach- 
ful solemnity. 

"Have  a  good  time,  dearies,"  Aunt  Serena  called  after 
them,  with  that  too  sugary  sweetness  born  of  conscious 
injustice. 

Rue  left  a  haughty  distance  between  herself  and  the 
unwelcome  toddler. 

"  Be  kind  to  your  little  cousin,  Rue,"  piped  Aunt  Serena, 
as  a  parting  shot. 

Rue  had  a  boy's  zest  for  life.  There  cannot  be  imagined 
any  more  irritating  bondage  for  a  wild  spirit  of  six, 


A  PASSAGE  PERILOUS  101 

bound  for  the  Shining  Hill,  than  custodyship  over  an  in- 
capable cookie-devouring  infant  in  blue  shoes.  The  in- 
firmities of  Justine's  extreme  youth  became  hateful  to  the 
intolerant  six-year-old.  Her  hours  of  freedom  were  as 
apples  of  Sodom. 

Below  Penrith  House  lay  a  succession  of  fair  meadows 
through  which  ran  a  tiny  brook.  The  brook  was  tiny  to 
grown  eyes,  but  to  the  eyes  of  those  small  in  stature  it  was 
a  river  of  geographical  importance  and  of  historic  fame. 
Great  would  have  been  the  surprise  of  the  little  ones  who 
played  upon  its  banks  to  know  that  it  did  not  rank  with 
the  Amazon  and  the  Hoang-Ho.  Yet  in  truth  perhaps 
they  were  right  to  venerate  the  little  brook,  for  it  could 
claim  an  equal  age  with  those  famous  rivers,  and  had 
probably  flowed  through  those  same  meadows  ever  since 
the  world  began.  The  brook  emptied  itself  decorously 
into  a  pond  known  as  Larrabee's  duck  pond,  a  modest 
body  of  water  possessed  of  infinite  resource.  There 
were  ducks,  pollywogs,  "minnies,"  as  well  as  a  swarming 
surface  population  denominated  "skimmers,  skittlers, 
jumpers,  jiggers,"  as  the  nimble  fancy  of  the  child  or  the 
nimble  locomotive  habit  of  insect  in  question  suggested. 
Before  arriving  at  the  pond  the  brook  meandered  secre- 
tively through  an  enormous  jungle  where  it  doubled  on 
its  pursuers,  creating  islands,  then  with  astonishing  sub- 
tlety expanded  into  a  water-soaked  swamp,  only  explor- 
able  by  spongy  and  perilous  humps.  Having  thus  eluded 
discovery  by  concealing  its  identity  under  acres  of  cat- 
tails, it  suddenly  gathered  its  forces  together  with  a  spurt 
of  frankness,  ran  an  unevasive  course  through  flowery 


102  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

banks  and  emptied  openly  into  the  pond.  Thus  it  made 
no  mystery,  as  many  brooks  do,  of  its  delivery  into  the 
superior  channel,  whose  call  it  so  long  evaded.  But  the 
manner  of  its  coming  to  terms  could  hardly  be  com- 
mended for  directness. 

The  terrible  swamp  under  which  the  wily  brook  hid  its 
identity  bordered  a  wood.  The  wood  began  wet  and  boggy 
with  tangles  of  fern  and  lush  jewel-weed,  and  ended  high 
and  dry  on  a  hill  with  sumac-trees  and  blackberry-vines 
against  a  stone  wall.  Beyond  that  hill  were  other  hills  and 
farthest  of  all  was  a  pink  haze  of  hilltop  against  a  pink 
haze  of  sky.  So  it  looked  mornings  and  evenings.  Rue 
called  this  dome  the  Shining  Hill  because  the  sun  caught 
it  first  at  sunrise  and  lingered  there  latest  at  night.  There 
were  no  roads  to  conduct  one  to  the  Shining  Hill.  One 
crossed  them  occasionally  as  one  journeyed  thither,  but 
followed  them  never.  Such  journeys  are  only  to  be  ac- 
complished by  indomitable  perseverance  and  dogged 
pluck,  as  well  as  a  fine  disregard  of  damage  to  shoes, 
frocks  and  external  amenities  of  face  and  hands,  for 
brambles,  briers,  fences  and  fens  are  apt  to  intervene  as 
obstacles. 

This  morning  the  two  children  let  the  path  lead  them, 
the  little  path  that  started  at  the  Penrith  back  porch, 
wound  discreetly  under  the  clothes-lines,  avoided  the  big 
lilac-bush,  twisted  under  the  apple-trees  till  it  found  the 
stone  wall  and  the  stile,  surmounted  this  hazard  and  took 
a  leisurely  course  through  the  meadows,  half  obliterated 
at  times  and  otherwhere  little  more  than  a  seam  in  the 
waving  silken  breadths  of  grass,  and  finally  discovered 


A  PASSAGE  PERILOUS  103 

the  edge  of  the  brook  at  the  place  where  dog-tooth  violets 
grew.  Now  the  path  and  the  brook  kept  company  for  a 
while  till  the  latter  fell  into  dark  and  devious  ways.  The 
path  then  swerved  aside  and  coaxed  little  feet  into  sunny 
uplands  far  from  the  mischievous  bog  and  finally  landed 
one  with  a  flourish  of  drollery  by  the  brook  again,  where 
was  a  miniature  strand  of  jeweled  pebbles  and  an  island. 
Soon  after,  if  one  did  not  dally  too  long  with  shining 
pebbles  and  schools  of  darting  "  minnies,"  one  found  one's 
self  on  the  stately  shore  of  Mr.  Larrabee's  duck  pond. 
Other  children  might  designate  it  familiarly  as  Larrabee's, 
but  not  so  the  Penriths,  who  were  carefully  enjoined  to 
give  every  man  his  due  title.  A  squadron  of  these  ducks 
sailed  about  the  pond  and  a  decent  couple  twaddled  and 
preened  to  each  other  on  the  bank.  Their  waddling  pla- 
cidity, their  sleekness  and  love  of  material  comfort  were 
also  qualities  of  Justine. 

"  Les  stop  and  visit  with  the  ducks ! " 

"There  isn't  time  to-day." 

"What's  time?" 

"Time  to  do  a  thing,"  explained  Rue  scornfully. 

"What  thing?" 

"Anything." 

"  Les  listen  what  the  dear  little  ducks  say." 

There  might  have  been  times  when  this  recreation 
would  have  appealed  to  Rue,  but  now  was  not  one  of  them. 
She  was  eager  and  restless  but  nevertheless  calmed  herself 
and  listened. 

"Why  do  the  dear  little  ducks  say  Cluck,  Cluck?" 
asked  Justine,  plumping  herself  on  the  grass  by  the  pond. 


104  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  Because  they  feel  cheerful." 

"Why  are  they  cheerful?" 

"They  are  enjoying  themselves,"  answered  Rue,  ab- 
sently, her  gaze  fixed  on  the  Shining  Hill. 

"Oh,  are  they?"  inquired  Justine  in  voluble  astonish- 
ment. "  Do  they  like  to  be  ducks  ?  " 

"I  think  so,  when  nothing  bothers  them." 

"Does  anything  ever  bower  them?" 

As  to  conversational  style  Justine  was  nothing  if  not 
persevering  and  thorough.  She  exhausted  her  subject  as 
well  as  her  vis-a-vis. 

"Sometimes  a  dog  might  chase  them,"  answered  Rue, 
her  patience  beginning  to  fray  at  the  edges. 

"What  dog?" 

"  I  don't  know  what  dog,"  said  Rue  tartly. 

In  proportion  as  Rue  became  tart  and  tired,  Justine 
waxed  adhesive  and  unwearied. 

"Please,  Rue,  just  s'pose  what  dog!" 

"Well,  Mr.  Dewsnap's  bull-terrier." 

Bull-terrier  Sancho  was  a  well-known  denizen  of  the 
neighborhood,  equally  dreaded  by  barn-yards  and  kitchen 
stoops.  The  sound  of  his  distant  joyous  salute  sent  all  the 
hens  fluttering  to  their  deepest  retreats. 

"  That  would  be  very  naughty  of  Sancho  to  bovver  dear 
little  ducks,"  said  Justine,  with  austere  disapproval  of 
the  imagination  capable  of  framing  such  iniquity. 

"Perhaps  so,"  admitted  Rue  perfunctorily,  with  a 
fellow-feeling  in  her  heart  for  the  suppositious  Sancho 
in  his  imaginary  bothering  of  the  real  ducks  that  had 
precipitated  this  endless  train  of  cross-questions.  She 


A  PASSAGE  PERILOUS  105 

arose  and  pulled  peremptorily  at  Justine.  Justine,  black- 
eyed  and  pink  and  white,  waddled  complacently  by  her 
side,  filled  with  generous  indignation  on  behalf  of  her 
friends,  the  ducks. 

"Would  you  whip  that  Sancho  for  bowering  those 
ducks?" 

"  Would  you  like  to  be  whipped  ? "  asked  Rue,  sternly 
irrelevant. 

"  But  I'm  not  naughty  like  Sancho,"  said  Justine  plain- 
tively. 

"Yes,  you  are,"  Rue  replied  solemnly.  "You're  both- 
ering me  this  very  minute." 

"  It's  not  naughty  to  bovver  you,"  pouted  Justine,  "  but 
of  tourse  I  wouldn't  bower  dear  little  ducks." 

Rue  could  have  taken  flight  that  moment  for  the  land 
of  freedom,  but  Justine,  blue-ginghamed,  pigtailed  and 
duck-adoring,  was  tied  like  a  millstone  around  her  neck 
She  began  to  cast  about  in  her  mind  for  ways  to  dispose 
of  the  incumbrance.  The  duck  pond  was  the  natural  limit 
of  Justine's  wanderings,  but  for  Rue,  there  were  "three 
hours  yet  in  which  the  world  might  be  explored,  empires 
battled  for  and  won,  if  only  Justine  were  not  attached 
to  her  skirts.  She  held  out  to  the  little  child  all  the  induce- 
ments her  fancy  suggested  to  hasten  her  return  home.  The 
pictures  in  Goldsmith's  "Animated  Nature,"  Rue's  family 
of  paper  dolls,  a  vast  ephemeral  race,  the  tracing-slate, 
the  kaleidoscope,  all  the  peculiar  possessions  usually  for- 
bidden to  the  younger  infant  were  freely  offered  her.  But 
never  had  Justine  displayed  such  unflinching  attach- 
ment to  little  Miss  Penrith's  presence. 


106  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"I  want  to  stay  with  you  all  the  morning,"  Justine 
answered  over  and  over  again,  with  touching  fidelity. 

"  I'm  going  to  walk  miles  and  miles,"  said  Rue,  leagues 
in  her  voice  and  eyes. 

"How  far?"  asked  Justine,  with  ready  acquiescence  in 
all  of  Rue's  plans,  now  that  she  realized  her  own  fate 
trembled  in  the  balance. 

"  OS  there  to  the  edge  of  the  world,"  said  Rue,  pointing 
to  the  horizon,  "about  a  thousand  miles." 

"I  want  to  go,  too,"  cried  Justine  in  awed  anticipation 
"Will  the  people  have  heads  like  us  on  the  other  side  of 
that  edge?" 

Rue  perceived  an  opening,  a  ray  of  hope.  Though 
Justine  was  not  to  be  cajoled,  she  might  be  terrorized. 

"There  are  dreadful  giants  over  there,  and  dragons," 
she  began,  in  blood-curdling  accents,  adding  rather  lamely, 
"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  to  save  herself  from  the  inward 
consciousness  of  a  lie.  With  this  saving  clause  she  pro- 
ceeded freely. 

'•'They  have  iron  claws  for  hands  and  smoke  in  their 
mouths.  Do  you  see  that  gray  cloud  there  ?  That's  a  giant's 
breath." 

Justine  was  already  turning  longing  eyes  to  the  home- 
ward stile. 

"Will  the  ginant  get  me?" 

"  Not  if  you  hurry  home.  Good-by." 

"Where  are  you  going?  I'm  afraid.  Come  with  me, 
please." 

"I  must  take  a  little  walk.  They  know  me  and  never 
hurt  people  they  know." 


A  PASSAGE  PERILOUS  107 

Rue  bounded  from  stone  to  stone  across  the  brook  and 
was  soon  midway  of  the  humpy  swamp. 

"  Go  home,"  she  called  to  Justine,  "  go  home  quickly." 

Soon  she  would  reach  the  little  wood,  the  sumac  hill, 

the  Beyond.  It  was  a  mad  abandon  of  wickedness.  She 

left  behind  her  truth,  virtue,  civilization  and  terrorized 

Justine. 

"Come  back,  come  back,  Rue,  Rue,  Rue!" 
Justine's  powers  of  persistence  could  hardly  be  over- 
estimated.  She  generally  gained  the  situation  by  pure 
persistence.  There  is  enormous  cumulative  power  in  a 
prolonged  steady  wail. 

Rue's  last  reckless  leap  plunged  her  ankle  deep  in  black 
mire.  She  felt  it  trickle  down  between  her  shoes  and  stock- 
ings. But  now  the  ground  began  to  be  solid  under  her  feet. 
She  had  passed  the  region  of  quaking  morass  and  sought 
the  shelter  of  a  thicket  where  she  was  hidden  from  Justine. 
Peeping  through,  she  saw  the  forlorn  little  figure  of  the 
abandoned  Justine.  She  had  followed  Rue  to  the  middle 
stone  of  the  brook  and  there  her  courage  failed  her.  But 
with  hands  outstretched  she  cried : 

"The  ginants,  the  ginants!  Come  back,  come  back!" 
Rue,  although  not  a  motherly  child,  was  tender- 
hearted. It  particularly  grieved  her  that  she  should  have 
disturbed  Justine's  mind  with  thought  of  the  dreadful 
"ginants."  To  have  left  her  alone  was  sufficient  cause  for 
lamentation.  Yet  there  failed  not  to  mingle  with  the  pangs 
of  remorse  a  sentiment  of  pride  at  her  own  graphic  images 
that  had  proved  so  successful.  Justine's  grief  became  less 
and  less  articulate  as  despair  got  hold  on  her.  Rue  steeled 


108  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

herself  by  the  thought  of  her  own  hard-earned  freedom, 
and  the  long  self-denial  of  that  week  of  "  excellent  be- 
havior." She  recalled  past  crises  when  Justine's  passion, 
seemingly  immitigable,  had  been  soothed  by  the  gross 
panacea  of  rock-candy  or  raisins.  The  pathetic  voice 
assailed  her. 

"Come  back,  come  back,  Rue,  Rue!" 

On  the  first  stone  of  the  brook  sat  the  pitiful  bag  of 
cookies,  tilted  to  one  side,  displaying  its  moist  contents. 
Among  blooming  drifts  of  trees  frowned  the  grave  roof  of 
the  Penrith  House,  looking  just  like  Grandfather's  Olympian 
brow  in  displeasure.  The  fair  meadows  billowed  between, 
innocently  smiling.  Rue  crouched  upon  a  stone,  taking 
good  care  not  to  crush  a  violet  tuft  that  peeped  between 
her  feet.  She  could  not  bear  to  go  on  till  Justine  had  found 
surcease  of  sorrow.  To  call  to  her  reassuringly  would  have 
only  proved  incitement  to  renewed  vocal  anguish.  Rue 
sat  determinedly  silent,  her  small  golden-brown  face 
pressed  unhappily  between  two  muddy  hands.  Justine's 
chubby,  blue-aproned  figure  was  still  turned  appealingly 
to  the  wood  whose  mysterious  depths  had  swallowed  up 
her  protector.  She  wept  and  wailed  with  infinite  faith  in 
her  powers  of  weeping  to  soften  the  heart  of  the  mysterious 
wood  and  make  it  give  up  its  secret.  At  last,  hope  being 
abandoned,  she  calmed  herself  with  suspicious  alacrity, 
and  like  the  sensible  infant  she  was,  decided  to  return 
home  and  pour  out  her  grief  into  the  auntly  bosom.  She 
did  not  omit  to  gather  up  the  dissolute  bag  of  cookies  and 
munch  a  particularly  degenerate  specimen  along  the  way. 
Nothwithstanding  this  reassuring  symptom,  Rue  found 


A  PASSAGE  PERILOUS  109 

much  cause  for  self-flagellation  in  the  sight  of  the  little 
aproned  mite  toiling  in  loneliness  across  the  great  meadow 
and  almost  swallowed  between  the  ranks  of  buttercups 
and  tall  grasses.  Especially  pathetic  were  the  two  black 
pigtails  bobbing,  and  the  untied  blue  hair  ribbons.  Rue 
determined  to  spare  no  pains  with  Justine's  loops  and  ends 
the  following  morning.  To  assist  at  Justine's  coiffure  and 
toilet  was  supposed  to  be  useful  training  in  the  cause  of 
domestic  helpfulness,  though  provocative  of  many  argu- 
ments between  the  two  children.  Thus  fortified  with  good 
resolutions,  Rue  went  on  her  way. 

When  she  had  reached  the  summit  of  the  first  hill  she 
could  look  back  and  see  the  country  below  her.  The  little 
river  winding  silverly  between  its  willows  or  dark  hemlocks, 
the  farms  with  their  misty  green-shot  or  rosy  ploughed 
lands,  the  duck  pond  like  a  shining  shield,  and  the  gray 
roof  and  green  blinds  of  her  own  house  in  a  bouquet  of 
snowy  fruit  trees.  The  little  path,  too,  she  could  see  more 
plainly  here  than  from  any  other  point.  Following  it  with 
her  eyes  she  perceived  the  low  stone  wall  and  the  stile  over 
which  Justine  would  soon  be  clambering.  Now  she  saw 
the  square  blue  figure  emerge  from  the  engulfing  meadow 
and  make  the  first  laborious  step  of  the  stile.  But  what  was 
that  sound  of  woe  when  Justine  reached  a  point  of  vantage 
on  the  top  of  the  stile  and  under  the  protection  of  the  an- 
cestral roof?  She  had  astutely  seized  the  opportunity  for 
a  second  instalment  of  wailing.  The  wails  were  increas- 
ingly pathetic  with  the  dramatic  appeal  of  a  child  to  her 
audience. 

"Rue,  Rue,  come  back,  come  back!" 


110  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Rue,  taking  fresh  courage,  sped  on  her  journey.  She  knew 
that  retributive  justice  awaited  her  at  the  day's  end,  but 
till  then,  the  day.  Freedom,  though  costly,  is  worth  the 
price.  The  day's  end  was  often  a  sad  time  with  Rue 
Penrith.  It  was  then  that  confessions  were  due,  justice 
meted  out,  repentance  exacted.  Sunsets,  for  her,  shed  no 
peaceful  light,  but  a  sad  retributive  glow.  Rue,  hurrying 
on  through  hill  and  dale,  soon  forgot  inauspicious  begin- 
nings in  a  new  world  of  glory.  The  joy  of  mere  existence 
intoxicated  her.  She  put  out  her  arms  to  embrace  the 
blossoming  earth.  She  sat  down  on  fence  rails  and  on  wet 
knolls,  —  it  mattered  little  —  and  absorbed  the  pale 
morning  sheen,  the  mist  and  blue  and  fragrance,  like  any 
little  unthinking  vegetable.  Reckless,  happy,  selfish  Rue! 

The  Shining  Hill  was  still  far  distant.  The  land  between 
that  looked  so  brief  from  the  Penrith  stile  elongated  itself 
extraordinarily  under  her  feet.  Gullies  that  she  thought 
could  be  cleared  by  a  bound  proved  ravines  of  consider- 
ation. She  could  not  step  from  hill  to  hill,  but  had  to 
achieve  their  intervals  by  dint  of  marshy  valleys  between. 
Yet  the  walk  was  full  of  charming  surprises.  There  were 
yellow  and  white  violets  in  the  woods.  One  ravine  was 
white  with  a  snow-fall  of  trillium.  A  gray  squirrel  peeked 
at  her  around  the  bole  of  a  tree.  A  furry  woodchuck 
rolled  off  a  stone  before  her  very  eyes  and  whistled  to 
a  companion  in  sly  sign.  Dutchman's  breeches  puffed 
and  swung  along  perilous  cliffs.  Rue  nodded  and  chat- 
ted to  the  flowers  and  trees  as  she  passed  by.  She  was 
too  busy  to  pluck  herself  a  nosegay,  for  she  was  an  ex- 
plorer on  vast  enterprise  bent.  Hah'  the  time  the  undula- 


A  PASSAGE  PERILOUS  ill 

tions  of  the  country  hid  the  Shining  Hill  from  her  sight, 
but  the  cow-paths,  the  wood-trails  and  lumber  roads  led 
her.  Out-of-doors  has  a  delightful  way  of  taking  us  by  the 
hand  and  leading  to  sweet  places  we  could  never  find  of 
our  own  wills.  Children  know  this  secret  and  yield  them- 
selves most  readily  to  the  witching  dark  moods  of  the  earth's 
bosom.  Try  it  some  day  for  yourself,  you  Grown-Up 
Person,  abandon  that  well-worn  road,  that  established 
foot-path,  and  see  what  witchery  the  outland  will  have  in 
store  for  you. 

Rue  dipped  down  the  side  of  a  hill,  penetrated  a  deep 
wood,  dripping  wet,  with  jungles  of  white  woolly  ferns  up 
to  her  knees,  barely  uncoiling,  followed  the  finger  of  sun 
through  the  glittering  young  foliage,  came  out  by  a  broken 
gray  fence.  A  convenient  aperture  told  her  Enter  Here. 
She  found  herself  in  a  deserted  pasture  between  two  hills. 
They  rose  on  each  side  of  her  like  walls,  a-glow  with  the 
delicate  fancies  of  spring.  Clumps  of  trees  and  bushes  were 
like  landmarks  beckoning  her  to  follow  them.  A  bluejay's 
feather  lay  at  her  feet  for  sign.  She  picked  it  up  and  thrust 
it  through  the  ribbon  of  her  hat.  A  bird  overhead  in  the  ex- 
ultant blue  sent  its  shadow  flitting  like  a  live  thing  across 
her  path.  The  shadow  of  a  flying  bird  is  a  rare  piece  of 
symbolism,  granted  only  to  the  elect  to  see  and  under- 
stand. I  do  not  understand  it,  but  Rue  did  and  laughed 
with  her  interpretation.  She  became  aware  that  she  had 
found  a  Fairy  Valley. 


xn 

THE  FAIRY  VALLEY 

THE  sward  was  thick-set  with  violets,  the  bluest 
she  had  ever  seen.  Their  generous  length  of 
stem,  their  luscious  color,  proved  irresistible. 

"Pluck  us,  my  child,"  they  cried. 

Rue,  with  a  melting  heart,  dropped  upon  her  grass- 
stained  knees  and  pulled  as  many  as  her  two  hands  could 
hold.  The  eastern  hill  was  so  high  and  sheer  that  the  sun, 
as  if  newly  arisen,  leaned  on  his  elbow  and  looked  at  her. 
The  greensward,  till  then  in  shadow,  began  to  shine  with 
dewy  cobwebs.  The  small  trees  near  by  were  draped  with  a 
wealth  of  gauzy  cart-wheels.  A  huge  spider,  black  and 
hairy  in  the  center  of  his  castle,  wore  a  not  unfriendly 
aspect,  as  of  a  benevolent  though  ugly  old  gentleman.  Rue 
regretted  her  past  prejudice  against  spiders.  As  she 
knelt  there,  filling  her  lap  with  blue  and  purple  violets, 
there  gradually  filtered  through  her  consciousness  the 
sound  of  running  water.  A  delicate  sound,  attained  to  only 
by  degrees,  sweet  purling  of  a  hidden  brook  over  a  shallow 
bottom;  spatter  of  miniature  waterfalls,  gurgle  of  tiny 
whirlpools. 

"  My  Fairy  Valley,  my  Fairy  Valley, "  cried  Rue,  quite 
sure  that  she  had  discovered  a  region  unvisited  before  by 
mortals. 

112 


THE  FAIRY  VALLEY  113 

Behind  that  sweep  of  tenderly  purple  alders  the  brook 
lay.  She  tiptoed  across  the  meadow  and  gently  parted  the 
thicket.  There  lay  the  brook,  dimpling  demurely,  sparkling 
in  the  sun,  golden-brown  at  the  bottom  of  its  deep  pools. 
This  was  not  all  that  Rue  saw.  A  barefoot  boy  stood  on  a 
stone  in  the  middle  of  the  creek.  He  wore  a  tasseled  cap, 
beneath  which  his  light  hair  crisply  bushed  out.  Rue  was 
sure  that  he  was  the  counterpart  in  real  life  of  the  boy  in 
the  Guest-Room  picture,  "  Crossing  the  Brook. " 

This  was  certainly  Lillo,  he  of  the  fagots  and  the  timid 
girl.  Every  now  and  then  he  flicked  his  line  over  the  water. 
When  he  turned  in  her  direction,  Rue  saw  that  he  had  laugh- 
ing eyes  and  that  his  smock  was  open  at  the  throat.  Ah,  what 
a  liberal-minded  great-aunt  there  must  be  to  allow  such 
untrammeled  costumes!  There  was  a  third  spectator  and 
participant,  to  wit,  a  shepherd  dog  with  erect  tail,  gleaming 
eyes  and  scarlet  open  mouth.  What  happier  combination 
can  possibly  exist  than  boy  and  dog  and  brook  ? 

But  where  was  the  timid  girl  with  the  fagots  ?  Rue 
pushed  her  way  through  the  tangled  bushes,  and  advanced 
to  the  quiet  rim  of  the  stream.  A  strip  of  grass  was  green 
and  soft  like  a  lawn.  She  chose  the  hospitality  of  a  mossy 
stone  and  sat  down.  A  shaft  of  sun  pierced  the  bushes  and 
lighted  her  rough  bronze  hair  so  that  each  separate  hair 
was  burnished  red.  She  did  not  know,  nor  would  she  have 
cared  if  she  had  known,  that  her  eyes  were  purple  as  the 
violets  which  she  had  stuck  in  her  belt,  and  that  something 
of  the  brook's  ripple  and  golden  shadow  lingered  in  her 
smile.  She  had  not  reached  the  fond  looking-glass  age,  nor 
yet  the  age  beyond  when  one  finds  the  aptest  mirror  in  a 


114  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

lover's  adoration.  All  this  will  come  in  due  time:  just  now 
she  is  a  rough-and-tumble  little  girl,  absorbed  in  Lillo, 
and  waiting  breathlessly  till  he  shall  turn  and  see  her.  He 
whipped  the  water  here  and  there,  skilfully  avoiding  the 
roof  of  trees  that  hung  over,  and  playing  above  the  water 
with  the  delicate  hand  of  a  born  angler.  Finally  he  whistled 
low,  a  sou%i  that  sent  the  blood  hammering  to  Rue's 
heart,  so  full  was  that  whistle  of  import,  a  destiny  in  the 
balance.  Hither  and  thither  he  let  his  line  run  in  the  water. 
Now  and  again  bubbles  came  to  the  surface.  It  was  a 
tremendous  moment.  All  three,  dog,  boy  and  girl  remained 
frozen  to  their  intent  attitude  till  the  Event  took  place. 

"  Gee-whiz ! "  exploded  the  boy,  jerking  his  line  up.  Lo 
and  behold,  a  little  radiant  fish  dangled  there. 

"You've  got  him,"  whispered  Rue,  tumbling  off  her 
stone  in  a  transport. 

The  dog  celebrated  the  victory  by  a  succession  of  sharp 
yelps  like  excited  laughter.  He  pranced  up  and  down  like 
a  rubber-ball  on  legs. 

At  the  sound  of  a  girl's  voice,  the  boy  turned  in  dis- 
pleasure. There  was  Rue,  violets  strewn  over  her  person, 
her  hands  together,  see-sawing  delightedly  on  a  tipsy 
stone.  But  the  turning  cost  him  his  fish.  Somehow  or 
other,  with  a  slyness  peculiar  to  the  hunted,  it  perceived 
its  opportunity,  and  with  one  titanic  effort  freed  itself  of 
the  hook  and  leaped  to  the  water.  Boy  and  fish  were  sadder 
and  wiser. 

"  Gee-whiz ! "  said  the  boy,  this  time  in  a  different  tone. 

He  advanced  up-stream  toward  Rue,  wading  knee-deep 
in  the  whirlpools  with  beautiful  recklessness.  His  legs 


THE  FAIRY  VALLEY  115 

made  enormous  splashes.  He  had  seen  the  girl  once,  but 
appeared  no  longer  to  notice  her.  She  was  an  insignificant 
incident  compared  to  a  three-quarter  pound  trout,  yet 
an  incident  forced  to  unpleasant  prominence  by  her  share 
in  the  catastrophe.  He  stole  side-glances  at  her  out  of 
curiosity.  Violets  and  torn  apron,  grass-stained  knees  and 
elfin  eyes,  she  somehow  impressed  him  as  a  young  fawn 
might  have  done,  something  to  be  caught  and  tamed  and 
taught  tricks  to,  with  a  boy's  infinite  patience.  For  boys, 
theories  to  the  contrary,  are  infinitely  patient  when  dealing 
with  their  own.  They  have  almost  the  patience  of  animals, 
and  what  can  equal  the  sublime  patience  of  a  cat  sitting 
on  a  stump  in  the  meadow  at  twilight,  waiting  for  a  field- 
mouse?  Nature  is  patient,  too,  bidding  her  time  with 
elemental  calm,  so  there  we  have  the  Three  Patiences, 
boys,  animals,  the  elements.  This  boy  was  not  interested 
in  his  womankind,  but  he  was  interested  in  the  thing  that 
had  lost  him  his  fish. 

"It  was  my  fault,  wasn't  it?"  said  Rue,  taking  his 
glances  for  reproach,  and  abasing  herself  with  unusual 
humility  before  his  noble  silence.  Humility  was  not  or- 
dinarily her  role. 

"  I  guess  it  was, "  he  admitted,  dryly,  then  added  with  a 
burst  of  magnanimity.  "  But  I  don't  care.  I've  got  a  pile 
on  shore." 

"  You  must  be  a  splendid  fisherman ! " 

"Oh,  pretty  fair,"  he  replied  with  princely  modesty. 
"  I've  drew  in  'bout  eight  since  breakfast. " 

"Oh!"  Rue's  limited  vocabulary  of  expletives,  owing  to 
paternal  jurisdiction,  allowed  her  no  stronger  expression 


116  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

of  emotion,  but  this  simple  word  was  packed  with  feeling. 

"And  that  ain't  nothing  for  me,"  the  boy  threw  out 
casually.  He  paused  near  her  and  bestowed  critical  at- 
tention on  the  lower  branches  of  a  young  willow. 

Rue  quailed  at  the  novelty  of  his  speech,  "  ain't, "  also, 
being  a  vulgarism  sternly  repressed  by  the  Penrith  house- 
hold. But  she  could  not  repress  a  thrill  of  admiration  at 
his  emancipation.  She  herself  had  often  longed  for  the 
freedom  that  goes  with  emancipated  grammar. 

"  What  a  sweet  laughing  mouth  your  dog  has !  I  wish  my 
Aunt  Serena  would  let  me  have  a  dog.  Does  your  great- 
aunt  let  you  have  almost  anything  at  all  you  want  ?  " 

"  It  ain't  my  dog  and  I  ain't  got  no  great-aunt, "  said  the 
boy  succinctly. 

"  Oh,  haven't  you  got  —  I  mean,  haven't  you  a  great- 
aunt?"  asked  Rue,  rhetorical  elegancies  troubling  her 
again.  "  Who  makes  you  get  up  in  the  morning  and  tells  you 
what  to  wear  on  Sundays  ?  " 

"Nobody  makes  me,"  he  said,  like  a  young  lord.  "I 
do  what  I  please."  He  inspected  a  sapling  critically, 
decided  on  a  particular  branch,  and  plucked  it  for  a  whip. 
Rue  folded  her  hands  and  bethought  herself  of  an  opening 
to  ask  him  about  the  girl  with  the  fagots.  It  did  not  seem 
right  that  they  should  be  separated.  The  boy  was  im- 
mensely absorbed  in  peeling  his  willow  switch.  He  was  a 
comely  little  lad,  with  a  sunburned  face,  dazzlingly  white 
teeth  when  he  spoke  or  smiled,  laughing  gray  eyes  with 
inky  lashes,  and  a  general  look  of  alert  wholesomeness. 
His  cap  displayed  a  jaunty  tassel  and  his  blouse  was  open 
at  the  throat,  showing  a  skin  as  fair  as  a  girl's.  The  panting 


THE  FAIRY  VALLEY  117 

shepherd  dog  regarded  the  whip  with  mingled  trepidation 
and  approval. 

The  silence  between  them  was  a  comfortable  one,  during 
which  little  sparks  of  personality  flew  back  and  forth. 
They  were  getting  acquainted  just  as  young  animals  do, 
in  a  better  way  than  by  speech.  One  needs  no  more  than 
to  be  in  the  same  vicinity  with  a  person  to  feel  his  personal- 
ity. He  sheds  it  about  him,  as  the  blind  and  deaf  can  testify. 

"  I'll  peel  you  a  whip  if  you  want  me  to, "  said  the  boy, 
laying  aside  the  one  he  had  prepared  for  himself.  He  would 
have  peeled  her  six  whips  if  she  had  wanted  them,  but  not 
to  have  reserved  the  first  one  for  himself  would  argue  a 
streak  of  unmanly  sentimentalism.  Rue  poked  some  stones 
in  the  bed  of  the  brook  with  a  stick  she  held  in  her  hand. 
The  water  gushed  up  suffused  with  mud  where  the  pebbles 
moved.  The  boy  liked  her  way  of  keeping  silent  before  she 
spoke.  Some  womankind  chatter. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Rue,  "I  would,  that  is,  I  should, 
like  one  very  much.  " 

She  had  been  carefully  reared  to  the  difference  between 
would  and  should,  but  at  this  moment,  she  felt  such 
discriminations  demeaning,  and  regretted  her  instinctive 
correction.  She  redeemed  herself  by  a  plunge: 

"  Where  is  the  girl  with  the  fagots  ? " 

The  boy  met  her  purple  eyes  with  frank  amazement. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you're  driving  at. "  The  pleasant 
look  of  his  mouth  made  his  brusqueness  almost  affectionate. 

"  I  mean  —  "  Rue  was  helpless  to  explain.  "  Where  is  - 
the  girl  with  the  fagots  ?  " 

"  If  that's  a  conundrum,  I  give  it  up. "  He  dropped  his 


118  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

eyes  half  sulkily,  sure  that  he  was  being  put  to  the  test  and 
adjudged  stupid.  Like  other  womankind,  this  girl  was 
complex  and  silly  in  conversation. 

"She's  your  sister,  maybe.  I  don't  know  her  name." 

"How  happens  you  know  her  if  you  don't  know  her 
name  ? "  asked  the  boy,  scorning  the  subterfuge  behind 
which  this  girl  retreated. 

"  I  see  her  every  day.  I  can't  help  knowing  her,  can  I  ?  " 
pleaded  Rue,  "but  I  don't  know  her  name  because  she 
never  told  me.  She  can't  talk. " 

"Dumb,  eh,"  commented  the  boy,  a  spark  of  compre- 
hension lighting  his  expression. 

"Of  course  she's  not  dumb,"  cried  Rue,  impetuously, 
frightened  at  the  bare  possibility.  "  She  often  talks  to  him  — 
to  you,  I  mean.  But  I  wasn't  in  the  picture,  so  I  couldn't 
hear  what  you  said  to  her. " 

"  Who  are  you  talking  about,  anyway  ?  " 

"Why,  the  girl  with  the  fagots. " 

"What's  fagots?" 

"  That's  what  she  has  on  her  head. " 

"I  don't  know  nothing  about  bonnets,  if  that's  what 
fagots  is. " 

Both  children  were  thoroughly  puzzled,  one  with  the 
other.  The  boy  was  shy  when  off  his  familiar  territory. 
He  began  to  grow  awkward  with  this  strange  little  girl's 
earnest  gaze  studying  his  face.  She  was  certainly  making 
game  of  him.  He  noticed  from  the  start  an  affected  ele- 
gance about  her  language.  So  he  thrust  the  whip  into  her 
hands  and  murmured  something  about  his  dinner-hour. 

"  Folks'll  be  lookin'  for  me.  Here's  your  whip. " 


THE  FAIRY  VALLEY  119 

Rue  meekly  received  the  sleek  ivory  wand  and  watched 
the  boy  as,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  he  strode  down  the 
creek. 

"You're  not  going  to  forget  your  fish,  are  you?"  she 
called  after  him,  in  a  voice  choking  with  emotion.  He 
looked  back  and  noted  her  unsmiling  eyes  and  the  tremb- 
ling lip. 

"  By  jingo,  I  clean  forgot  them. " 

He  was  convinced  that  she  had  not  been  making  game 
of  him,  and  pitied  her  for  her  queer  fancies.  He  whistled 
so  that  she  should  not  know  his  soft  feelings. 

"  Aren't  you  Lillo  ?  "  she  asked,  a  sob  in  her  voice,  but 
made  bold  because  of  his  whistle.  She  knew  she  had  com- 
mitted some  grievous  fault,  and  that  the  whistle  meant 
condoning. 

"  Maybe  I  am  and  maybe  I'm  not, "  he  said  diplomat- 
ically, resolved  to  be  drawn  into  no  more  tangles. 

Rue  considered  it  best  to  pursue  the  unfortunate  subject 
no  longer.  There  might  be  reasons  of  state  involved  in 
Lillo's  concealment  of  his  identity.  She  could  imagine 
them.  There  had  been  occasions  when  she  herself  had 
found  it  inconvenient  to  be  known  as  Dr.  Penrith's  kin. 

The  two  conversed  for  a  while  on  various  topics,  ex- 
changing experiences  on  the  finding  of  birds'-nests  and 
squirrels'  hoards,  on  the  disgustingness  of  fractions  and 
long  division,  on  the  pleasures  of  the  field  and  the  tedium 
of  company  dinners,  on  all  which  topics  they  found  them- 
selves at  one. 

"  Say,  seems's  if  I'd  known  you  long  time, "  exclaimed 
the  boy.  "Ain't  it  funny?" 


120  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  I  knew  you  were  Lillo  right  away, "  Rue  was  encourag- 
ed to  respond.  "  But  I  should  think  she'd  be  awful  lonely 
without  you." 

"Who  the  dickens?" 

"  The  —  the  —  girl  —  "  Rue  had  it  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue 
to  finish  with  that  fatal  phrase,  "  the  girl  with  the  fagots, " 
but  happily  desisted. 

"We  ain't  got  any  girl,  if  that's  what  you  mean," 
answered  the  boy.  "  Me  and  Angela  just  cooks  it  up  anyhow, 
till  mother  comes.  Angela  picks  flowers  all  the  time  and  digs 
up  ferns  from  the  woods.  But  I  like  her  all  the  samee. " 

"Who  is  Angela?"  Rue's  imagination  plucked  at  the 
pretty  name. 

"She's  just  Angela.  She's  a  friend  of  mama's.  She  has 
the  longest  hair  ever,  awful  light-colored  like  dandelions 
and  she  lets  it  down  in  two  braids  like  a  kid.  She  always 
wears  a  blue  dress  and  she  sits  on  the  stile  and  sings  to 
herself  like  a  little  girl. " 

"  I  can  see  her, "  cried  Rue.  "  Her  eyes  are  like  Quaker- 
ladies  in  the  spring.  She  has  little  hands  that  move  when 
she  talks." 

"Yep,"  said  the  boy.  "There'll  be  another  freak  up 
there  s'soon  as  mommer  comes.  He's  allus  skallyraggin 
after  mommer.  D'ye  see  him,  too  ?  " 

The  boy  scowled  disgustedly. 

"  You  don't  like  him,  do  you  ?  "  asked  Rue,  sympathetic- 
ally. 

"Not  one  little  bit,  you  bet!" 

Rue  instantly  appropriated  this  choice  bit  of  phrase- 
ology for  future  use. 


THE  FAIRY  VALLEY  121 

"How  does  he  look?" 

"  Just  now  he's  reddish,  with  eyes  that  stick  out,  and  he's 
clawy  all  over. " 

Rue's  previous  notions  were  quite  upset  by  this  word 
picture :  "  Oh,  it's  a  beetle  you  mean,  a  kind  of  June-bug. 
Is  your  mother  a  — "  Rue  hesitated  at  the  long  word 
which  she  felt  sure,  from  past  experiences  when  she  had 
frightened  other  children  by  her  strange  vocabulary, 
would  stamp  her  as  pariah,  "  is  your  mother  a  —  entomol- 
oger?  They're  people  that  collect  crawlers  and  fliers  and 
arrange  them  on  pins  to  frighten  silly  ladies. " 

She  added  this  interpretation  with  modesty,  so  to  dis- 
guise the  shameful  burden  of  her  learning.  The  boy 
spread  himself  full  length  on  the  grass  and  laughed.  He 
rolled  over,  his  face  to  the  ground,  and  laughed  more. 
He  flung  his  heels  skyward  and  laughed  a  third  transport. 
When  he  resumed  a  normal  posture,  Rue  stood  with  her 
back  to  him,  her  face  buried  in  her  apron,  crying. 

"I  wasn't  laughing  at  nothing,"  said  the  boy,  crossly, 
in  an  excess  of  contrition.  "  I  often  do  that,  in  pleasant 
weather  particularly. " 

Rue  peeked  at  him  around  the  corner  of  her  apron. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  maybe  you  were  laughing  —  at  me. " 

"At  you!"  his  voice  was  loud  with  hypocrisy. 

"About  the  entomologer  and  the  bugs." 

The  boy's  penitential  sobriety  suffered  a  moment's 
collapse :  "  You  see, "  he  smiled,  "  it's  a  man  I  w,as  talking 
of,  but  he  is  uncommonly  like  a  beetle,  good  glory!" 

This  time  Rue  laughed  with  him. 

"He's  not  your  father?" 


122  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"Not  on  your  life!  I  never  saw  my  father.  Mother 
sings,  you  know.  I  don't  see  her  often,  either. " 

"  Oh,  is  your  mother  a  singer  ?  She  must  be  awful  good, 
most  as  good  as  a  minister. " 

The  boy's  dazzling  teeth  showed  again. 

"I  don't  know  much  about  ministers,  neither  does 
mother. " 

"What?  Doesn't  she  sing  hi  church  on  Sundays?" 

The  concept  "singer"  in  Rue's  mind  was  a  lady  with 
staring  daisies  in  her  hat,  who  opened  her  mouth  very 
loud  for  the  hymns,  and  stood  on  the  organ's  right.  Being 
occasionally  deserted  by  the  vocal  support  of  the  congre- 
gation, she  would  mount  convulsively  to  the  top  note  of 
the  scale  hi  a  vicarious  effort  to  disguise  the  hiatus  of 
voices.  Such  musical  criticism  as  Rue  had  heard  was  on 
this  order. 

Grandfather:  "It  is  painful  to  hear  a  noble  hymn 
mutilated  as  was  the  case  this  morning. " 

Rue :  "  What  do  you  mean,  Grandfather  ?  " 

Grandfather:  "A  line  such  as  O  mother,  dear  Jerusalem! 
should  be  articulated  and  phrased  with  some  approximate 
regard  to  its  original  meaning.  Moreover,  there  is  no 
reason  for  ruthlessly  breaking  down  the  correct  rules  for 
syllabic  division.  What  a  travesty  on  the  original  is  O  mo 
thudea  Juru  Siduml " 

Great-Aunt  Serena:  "She  has  a  powerful  voice,  Jus- 
tinian, and  they  say  is  an  excellent  bread-maker.  " 

Grandfather  (firmly) :  "  She  mutilates  our  noblest  poetic 
reliques. " 

Collateral  reading  in  Abbott's  Histories  had  taught  Rue 


THE  FAIRY  VALLEY  123 

that  to  mutilate  is  to  tear  limb  from  limb.  Resultant, 
singers,  however  harmless  in  appearance  and  devout  of 
inclination,  nourish  sanguinary  impulses.  Beware  singers! 
This  would  explain  why  on  several  occasions  Rue  had 
hurried  nervously  past  the  worthy  soloist's  door,  and 
took  to  her  heels  one  day  when  a  friendly  voice  saluted  her 
from  the  back  porch.  The  singer  held  a  potato-knife  in 
her  hand  at  the  time,  which  added  to  the  duplicity  of  the 
invitation. 

"No,"  said  the  boy,  a  hint  of  real  manliness  in  his 
grave  regard.  "My  mother  doesn't  sing  in  church  on 
Sundays.  She  used  to,  but  longer  ago  than  I  can  remember. 
What  does  she  do  ?  She  does  the  circuit,  and  sometimes 
she  gets  on  in  musical  companies  for  the  road.  " 

He  was  aware  that  Rue  would  not  understand  him. 

"But  she's  very  good  to  me.  She  lets  me  live  where  I 
please. " 

"Where  you  please!  Anywhere  in  the  whole  wide 
world!" 

An  amazing  jumble  of  bewitching  geographical  names 
filled  Rue's  imagination. 

"  There's  far  Cathay,  and  Lapland  where  they  have  the 
lovely  nights  and  India's  coral  strand,  and  a  green  isle 
in  the  sea,  love, "  she  crooned. 

"  I  don't  know  about  them  places, "  said  the  boy. 

A  hundred  fragments  from  her  poets  came  to  the  child's 
mind. 

"  And  you're  just  living  —  here !  Why  don't  you  live  in  - 
in  —  "  What  country,  out  of  all  the  intoxicating  geography  of 
romance,  would  be  her  choice  ? 


124  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Thick  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strew  the  brooks  in  Val- 
lombrosa,  floated  into  her  memory: "  In  Vallombrosa ! " 

"  Is  it  near  here, "  asked  the  boy.  "  It  sounds  like  comic 
opera. " 

"  It  isn't  comic  anything, "  said  Rue,  indignantly.  "  It's 
an  epic  by  Mr.  Milton.  He  was  blind.  Thick  as  fallen 
leaves  in  \  'allombrosa  ?  Doesn't  it  sound  peaceful  and 
golden  with  lovely  rustly  leaves  in  all  the  woods?  I 
shouldn't  wonder  a  bit  if  you  could  walk  in  them  up  to 
your  waist. " 

"  That  would  be  bully.  Do  you  suppose  there  are  heaps 
of  nuts  there  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course, "  Rue  boldly  ventured.  "  Chestnuts 
and  hickory-nuts  and  butternuts  —  and  lots  of  other 
kinds  of  nuts  I  have  forgotten.  Oh  yes,  and  — 

Candied  apple,  quince  and  plum  and  gourd, 
With  jetties  smoother  than  the  creamy  curd  —  /  *  * 

The  boy  licked  his  lips  appreciatively. 

"  I  guess  I'll  have  to  take  a  trip  there. " 

"  Let  me  go  with  you, "  said  Rue,  all  eagerness. 

"  Are  you  sure  about  the  name  ?  " 

"  Vallombrosa.  I'm  sure  it  must  be  a  real  place,  for  it's 
in  a  book.  Grandfather  had  me  learn  pages  and  pages  by 
heart.  It's  almost  like  the  Bible.  It  must  be  true. " 

"  I  have  a  railway  guide  at  home.  I'll  look  it  up, "  said 
the  boy. 

"When  shall  we  start?" 

"I  must  tell  Angela  about  it  first.  Maybe  she'd  like 
to  go  with  us.  She  isn't  very  well  this  summer.  That's  why 


THE  FAIRY  VALLEY  125 

she  came  up  here  to  the  Bungalow  and  brought  me  with  her 
for  company. " 

"  I'm  sure  she'd  like  Vallombrosa, "  said  Rue,  earnestly. 
"  I  should  love  to  journey  there  with  Angela  and  —  you. " 

The  boy  was  silent,  twisting  grasses  around  his  fingers. 
They  still  sat  by  the  brook,  on  two  stones  side  by  side. 
The  boy  dabbled  his  feet  in  the  water,  burrowing  little 
holes  with  his  toes  in  the  good  mud.  Rue's  gaze  was  fixed 
on  his  face.  She  was  thinking  about  Angela.  He  knew  it 
and  was  made  uncomfortable. 

"  Shall  I  learn  you  how  to  whistle  on  a  grass  ?  "  he  de- 
manded, bluntly. 

"  I  know  how,  thank  you, "  she  answered  a  little  haughti- 
ly, her  lidf  still  level  on  his  face. 

He  flushed. 

"I'll  bet  you  can't  do  it  as  loud  as  me.  What  are  you 
looking  at  me  like  that  for  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  looking  at  you.  " 

"  What  are  you  looking  at. " 

"Angela!" 

"Jerush!"  The  boy  jumped  to  his  feet  and  looked  be- 
hind. A  startled  gray  squirrel  clutched  his  breast  dramatic- 
ally, and  then  flattened  himself  bark-like  on  the  over- 
hanging limb.  He  arranged  his  tail  symmetrically  along 
the  ridge  of  his  back  and  awaited  developments. 

"  She's  not  there  at  all, "  said  the  boy. 

"But  I  can  tell  you  how  she  looks,"  replied  the  girl. 
"She  has  a  laughing  crying  face  and  hair  like  the  Lady 
of  Shalott's.  I  see  the  shape  it  makes,  big  twisted  vines 
around  her  head. 


126  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  What  makes  you  talk  like  that  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know, "  said  Rue,  her  vision  escaping  from  her. 
"  I  felt  it  in  my  fingers.  You  know  sometimes  I  have  queer 
dreams  in  my  fingers. " 

"Crazy!" 

"  Yes,  my  fingers  dance  and  want  to  do  things.  Then  if  I 
run  quick  and  get  some  putty,  they  make  shapes  for  me. 
I  don't  make  the  shapes.  My  fingers  have  eyes  and  ears 
and  are  just  like  people. " 

The  boy's  inky-lashed  gray  eyes  had  a  fascinating  way 
of  crinkling  up  as  he  smiled  and  listened.  Rue's  auto- 
biographical reminiscences  became  more  vivid  and  cor- 
respondingly less  truthful  with  this  bright  glance  feathering 
upon  her.  The  boy  became  fired  with  desire  for  empirical 
demonstration.  He  was  most  assiduous  in  providing  her 
with  the  best  quality  possible  of  mud  from  the  brook's 
bed  and  mixing  it  with  sand,  according  to  her  delightful 
directions.  Rue  showed  herself  a  true  genius  in  being 
fastidious  as  to  conditions. 

"  Everything  must  be  just  right, "  she  assured  her  slave, 
"  or  my  fingers  won't  do  it. " 

"  Mighty  perticklar,  ain't  they  ? "  he  said,  admiringly. 
He  regarded  with  respect  her  small  mud-stained  hands. 

"Nobody  can  look  but  myself,"  she  said  with  an  air 
of  being  the  mouthpiece  of  royalty.  The  boy  had  worn  on 
his  face  the  expression  of  an  audience  before  the  first 
curtain  goes  up.  It  quickly  changed  to  the  expression  after 
the  announcement  that  the  Prima  donna  has  a  slight  cold 
and  will  not  appear. 

"Aw,  come  off,"  he  pleaded,  but  Rue's  face  did  not  relent. 


THE  FAIRY  VALLEY  127 

"  You  must  go  away.  Still  further!  Where  I  can't  see  you. 
I'll  call  you  when  I'm  ready. " 

The  boy  hid  himself  behind  a  bush,  talking  to  the  dog 
for  consolation. 

"  Hurry  up.  This  is  like  being  out  in  proverbs, "  he  cried, 
and  then  trembled  lest  even  that  vocal  proof  of  his  nearness 
should  release  the  spell. 

After  a  time  he  was  summoned. 

"Why,  it's  a  fish,  the  very  fish  I  lost.  Bully  for  you! 
Look  at  them  fins  and  the  teenty  scales,  as  natural  as  life. 
It  was  curved  just  like  that,  too,  when  it  bounced  back 
into  the  water.  Jerush,  'twas  a  pity  I  let  that  fellow  go. " 

The  verisimilitude  of  Rue's  image  reawakened  his  grief 
at  his  late  bereavement.  Rue  rose  and  stamped  her  fish 
into  shapelessness  again. 

"  Good  glory !  What  are  you  doin '  ?  " 

"  I  hate  them  after  they're  finished, "  she  said. 

"  It  seems  wicked, "  the  boy  meditated. 

"I  know  it.  Sometimes  they  beg  me  to  let  them  live. 
But  it  was  only  a  mud  fish.  I  suppose  if  I  were  Jesus  I 
could  have  said  to  that  fish,  Arise,  take  up  thy  bed,  O  fish 
and  swim  !  and  he  would  have  done  it  verily.  It  sounds  sort 
of  funny,  doesn't  it,  but  He  wouldn't  have  told  the  fish  to 
walk,  would  He?" 

The  boy  was  not  good  at  philosophizing,  so  Rue  pro- 
ceeded. 

"  Arise,  O  brother,  swim.  And  the  little  fish  would  have 
obeyed. " 

"  I  suppose  so, "  said  the  boy,  petrified  by  the  theological 
turn  the  discussion  had  taken.  He  began  to  feel  empty. 


128  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"Say,  talkin'  of  fish,  ain't  you  hungry  ?  I'm  hollow  through 
and  through. " 

Rue  felt  under  her  apron  before  she  ventured  a  state- 
ment. 

"  So  am  I, "  she  declared,  "  I'm  thin  as  an  apron  on  the 
clothes-line. " 

They  both  exulted  over  this  simile  and  proceeded  to  lay 
plans  for  a  banquet. 

"  Let's  you  and  me  build  a  fire  and  then  we  won't  have 
to  go  home  for  dinner.  " 

"  I  hate  napkins  and  waiting  for  dessert, "  assented  Rue. 

"  We  don't  have  napkins  much  in  the  Bungalow,  and  we 
eat  dessert  at  any  time.  Often  we  eat  it  first  and  sometimes 
when  there  isn't  any  oatmeal  we  have  sherbet  for  break- 
fast instead. " 

"  Oh,  how  nice !  Angela  mustn't  be  very  much  grown  up, " 
exclaimed  Rue.  "  Great-Aunt  Serena  has  white  curls  and 
never  unfolds  her  handkerchief  till  on  the  way  home  from 
church.  When  does  Angela  unfold  hers  ?  I  like  to  unfold 
mine  in  sermon-time  for  it  gives  me  something  to  do. 
Aunt  Serena  says  it's  a  mussy  habit.  I'd  rather  be  mussy 
than  be  fussy,  wouldn't  you  ?  " 

"You  go  and  hunt  up  some  brush  for  the  fire  while  I 
clean  the  fish, "  said  Lillo.  "  Then  I'll  show  you  how  to 
fry  trout,  eh?" 

Rue  was  acquiescence  itself  in  the  presence  of  masculine 
decision.  She  liked  to  be  ordered  about  by  the  sparkling 
gray  eyes. 

"  Do  you  like  timothy-grass  ends  ?  I  think  they're  de- 
licious. We'll  have  them  for  asparagus. " 


THE  FAIRY  VALLEY  129 

"  They're  not  very  substantial,  are  they  ?  "  said  the  boy, 
devouring  at  one  unaesthetic  bite  the  whole  sheaf  of  tender 
white  ends  she  displayed  in  her  hands,  "but  they'll  do 
for  a  nibble. " 

"  Sorrel  is  good, "  said  Rue,  "  but  you  can't  have  any  of  it 
now.  This  is  salad.  It  comes  after  the  fish. " 

Thus  had  Aunt  Serena's  teaching  not  fallen  wholly  on 
stony  ground.  Various  other  condiments,  herbaceous  or 
rooty  in  character,  were  added  to  the  repast. 

"Here's  cigarettes  for  the  finish,"  said  wicked  Lillo, 
plucking  a  handful  of  those  everlasting-flowers  known  to 
children  as  Indian  tobacco.  They  were  fragrant  and 
budded  brown. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  smoke,"  said  Rue,  regretfully, 
"  but  I  think  I  could  learn.  " 

Such  docility  was  worthy  of  a  better  cause.  Why  would  it 
not  be  well,  Rue,  to  cultivate  such  a  frame  of  mind  when 
good  Aunt  Serena  labors  with  you  over  the  quilting  work, 
or  Grandfather  demonstrates  the  beauty  of  the  subjunc- 
tive mode  in  Latin. 

"  I  could  have  brought  a  whole  bag  of  cookies, "  said  Rue. 
The  reminiscence  was  pathetic,  as  reminiscences  are  apt  to 
be. 

"Why  the  dickens  didn't  you?" 

"I  was  too  busy  getting  away  to  think  of  them,"  and 
the  reason  was  satisfactory  to  them  both.  "Besides  that, 
I  might  have  dropped  them  crossing  the  humps  in  the 
swamp. " 

"  You  could  have  picked  them  up. " 

"They  would  have  been  muddy." 


130  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"Pooh!"  Lillo  curled  his  lip  at  the  effete  delicacy  that 
found  such  adjuncts  as  clean  swamp  mud  untasteable. 
Rue  hastened  to  redeem  herself  in  his  eyes. 

"We  could  have  eaten  the  muddy  places  first.  I  some- 
times do  that.  But  never  mind.  Justine  would  have  cried 
even  longer  if  I  had  taken  the  cookies. " 

The  thought  of  Justine  and  of  the  pitiful  pigtails  brought 
a  shadow  to  Rue's  merry  face. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  *  asked  Lillo,  in  his  usual  abruptly 
tender  voice. 

Rue  was  thinking  of  the  retributive  red  glow  of  sunset. 
It  was,  through  life,  characteristic  of  her  that  her  most 
joyous  hours  were  pricked  with  remorse.  The  sun  was 
swinging  round  to  touch  one  of  his  afternoon  hills,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  trees  went  the  other  way.  As  they  lunched 
together  there  was  little  need  for  conversation,  but  oc- 
casionally Rue  essayed  one  of  the  morning  phrases  that  had 
fallen  lightly  from  LOlo's  lips  and  found  that  the  planets 
still  took  their  courses,  and  the  earth  remained  unshaken. 
Lapses  from  grammar  that  had  been  represented  to  her  as 
dangerous  pitfalls,  and  that  accordingly  she  had  come  to 
regard  as  volcanic  craters  yawning  for  the  unwary,  seemed 
to  bring  about  no  perceptible  result  on  the  face  of  nature. 
Once  Lillo  had  repressed  a  singular  smile  when  she  had 
punctuated  a  particularly  enjoyable  trout-tail  with: 

"Glorious  goodness!  What  charming  tails  t routs  do 
have!" 

Two  goldfinches  alighted  on  a  branch  near  them  and, 
putting  their  bills  together,  cooed  and  whispered  in  a 
manner  peculiar  to  goldfinches  in  May-time. 


THE  FAIRY  VALLEY  131 

"  Whispering  in  company  ain't  polite, "  giggled  the  boy, 
feathering  his  eyes  at  Rue. 

"Let's  us  whisper,  too,"  giggled  Rue,  dropping  a 
mysterious  sound  into  Lillo's  ear. 

She  knew  no  more  than  he  what  she  purred  into  his  ear, 
but  it  was  enough  to  set  them  both  off  into  orgies  of 
laughter.  They  laughed  so  long  that  the  tears  ran .  down 
their  faces,  and  Lillo  had  to  abandon  an  unusually  choice 
combination  of  sorrel,  watercress,  and  trout,  that  was  on 
it<  way  to  his  mouth.  It  was  a  grievous  loss,  over  which 
both  of  them  made  lamentation.  Then  Rue  choked  over  a 
bone,  and  when  this  catastrophe  was  averted  they  were 
reduced  to  seriousness  again.  Meanwhile  the  goldfinches, 
through  some  dainty  bird  whimsy,  had  selected  a  different 
branch  a  few  yards  away,  on  which  they  continued  their 
pretty  philandering, 

"  Them's  wild  canary-birds, "  said  the  boy,  instructively, 
"  I'll  catch  one  for  you,  if  you  say  so. " 

This  generous,  though  rash,  offer  being  declined  by  Rue, 
Lillo's  dexterity  was  not  put  to  so  severe  a  test.  They 
consumed  the  eight  trout,  fins,  tails,  and  all  with  such 
assistance  as  the  dog  could  render  them.  After  they  had 
sampled  the  young  green  things  about,  known  in  nature's 
kitchen-garden  for  children,  they  washed  their  hands  in  the 
running  stream  and  walked  out  to  the  sunny  violet  meadow. 

A  certain  coldness  crept  between  them  as  the  necessity 
for  home-going  threatened.  There  is  always  a  mauvais 
quart  d'heure  after  a  too-sudden  intimacy.  People  ought 
to  take  wing  and  fly  away  at  the  flood-tide  of  emotion,  as 
birds  do,  instead  of  stuttering  on  each  other's  thresholds. 


132  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"Maybe  I'd  better  pick  some  more  violets,"  said 
Rue,  with  a  virtuous  face,  addressing  the  meadow  at 
large. 

Lillo  sat  down  near  by  and  found  it  immensely  impor- 
tant to  make  a  thorough  overhauling  of  his  many  pockets. 
He  assorted  with  some  due  pride  his  varied  possessions, 
making  neat  piles  of  them  on  the  grass  before  relegating 
them  again  to  the  unclassified  obscurity  of  his  inner  rai- 
ment. There  were  marbles,  jack-knives  in  numerous 
retrograde  stages  of  usefulness,  a  compass,  trout-flies, 
reels,  gaffs,  spoon  bait,  spinners.  These  latter  were 
tangled  up  with  extra  line,  sinkers  and  fish-hooks, 
with  an  ancient  piece  of  doughnut  and  a  petrified  seg- 
ment of  orange.  During  the  interesting  process  of  dis- 
entangling, Lillo  glanced  from  tune  to  time  at  Rue, 
hoping  she  would  notice  the  multitude  and  the  subtle  charm 
of  his  personal  estate.  In  vain.  Her  sordid  gaze  was  bent 
on  violets,  of  which  she  had  already  an  enormous  quantity, 
almost  enough  for  a  church  wedding  and  a  dozen  brides- 
maids. She  had  left  them  behind  her  in  purple  heaps, 
marking  her  progress  across  the  field. 

"Do  you  reckon  to  carry  the  whole  meadow  home 
with  you  ?  "  asked  the  boy,  bitterly,  his  insulted  possessions 
still  spread  out  between  his  feet. 

"  I've  only  got  about  a  quarter  done, "  answered  Rue, 
despairingly. 

"Better  rest!"  Lillo  made  a  place  for  her  where  she 
could  hardly  fail  to  view  his  possessions.  He  would  have 
died  rather  than  call  her  attention  to  them.  Her  dis- 
interested glance  followed  his. 


THE  FAIRY  VALLEY  133 

"Awful  lot  of  rubbish,  ain't  it?"  he  took  prompt  oc- 
casion to  say. 

"You  don't  have  to  cany  it,  do  you?"  asked  Rue, 
sympathetically.  "  You  could  bury  some  of  it,  or  we  could 
have  a  bonfire. " 

The  boy's  pent-up  indignation  knew  no  bounds.  He 
spluttered  inarticulate  fury. 

"  B-b-b-bury !  B-b-b-burn!  Have  a  bonfire  out  of  them!" 
His  outstretched  astounded  forefinger  seemed  to  indicate 
no  less  a  pile  than  the  Taj  Mahal  or  the  United  States 
Treasury.  After  some  minutes  of  outraged  silence,  he  con- 
quered himself  to  say:  "You're  a  girl.  You  don't  know 
no  better. " 

The  flimsy  and  futile  character  of  feminine  intelligence 
reasserted  itself.  No  one  but  Lillo  can  appreciate  the 
magnificence  of  his  absolution,  but  Rue,  to  this  day,  is 
ignorant  of  the  gross  offense  for  which  she  was  granted 
absolution.  It  was,  however,  inconvenient  to  harbor 
resentment  too  long  for  the  possessions  were  yet  to  be 
shown  off. 

"What  are  those  little  red  boxes?"  said  Rue,  pointing 
timidly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  On  that  piece  of  gray  cloth  there. " 

"  If  you  mean  on  my  handkerchief, "  said  Lillo,  haugh- 
tily, "  those  are  cartridge-boxes.  They  belong  to  my  Win- 
chester. " 

This  was  all  Greek  to  Rue,  but  she  hesitated  to  press  for 
an  explanation,  so  excruciating  had  been  the  recent  crisis. 

"They'll  kill  at  a  hundred  rods, "  added  Lillo,  sternly. 


134  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"Oh,  mercy!"  exclaimed  Rue,  feebly,  "Are  they  killing 
anything  now?" 

She  withdrew  her  gingham  skirts  from  the  neighborhood 
of  the  sanguinary  little  red  boxes. 

"  Of  course  not,  when  I  left  my  shot-gun  at  home," 
replied  he  of  the  weapon.  The  pitiful  ignorance  of  the  girl 
began  to  percolate  gently  through  his  consciousness.  His 
mood  changed.  He  took  keen  pleasure  in  imparting  infor- 
mation. It  was  as  minute  as  her  understanding  allowed. 
He  selected  his  fly-book  as  being  the  most  intelligible, 
through  its  bright  colors,  to  her  sex. 

"Look  a-here.  J'ever  see  a  fly-book  before?  It's 
buffin  leather,  the  Favorite.  My  mother  knows  a  sporting- 
goods  man  and  he  give  me  the  whole  outfit. " 

Rue  felt  reverentially  of  the  flexible  leather  case. 

"We  have  almost  every  kind  of  book,"  she  said,  "but 
not  any  about  flies.  Are  they  interesting  to  read  about? 
Let  me  look  at  the  first  chapter. " 

"All  right,"  the  boy's  eyes  twinkled. 

The  clasp  sprang  open  with  a  snap  and  a  row  of  gay 
artificial  flies  was  spread  before  Rue's  astonished  gaze. 
Lillo  laughed  aloud  for  pure  pleasure. 

"Oh,  how  pretty!" 

"Ain't  they?  you  bet!" 

"  What  do  you  do  with  them,  Lillo  ?  " 

"I  don't  do  a  thing  to  the  trout,  oh  no,"  rippled  his 
merry  voice. 

"  This  here  is  Red  Ibis  and  the  next  Royal  Coachman. 
Then  there's  Yellow  Sally  and  Grizzly  King.  He's  a 
winner,  sure  'nough. " 


THE  FAIRY  VALLEY  135 

"  Yellow  Sally ! "  echoed  Rue,  in  a  transport. 

All  of  a  sudden  a  church  clock  somewhere  tolled  four. 
It  was  a  dreadful  accusing  toll.  They  tore  themselves  apart. 

*'  I've  got  to  go, "  exclaimed  Rue. 

The  boy  did  not  demur,  but  filled  her  lap  with  the  wilted 
violets  she  had  plucked  an  hour  before. 

"  Where  do  you  live  ? "  he  asked. 

"  Over  there,  where  the  sun  will  go  down. " 

As  far  as  the  little  girl  was  concerned,  she  might  have 
been  a  hundred  miles  from  home,  so  unlocalized  had  been 
her  wanderings.  That  is  the  recipe  for  romance,  not  to 
know  when  or  where.  If  the  hour  strikes  or  the  landmark 
points  the  way,  romance  has  fled. 


XIII 
THE  HOMEWARD  WAY 

THE  buff-and-black  dog  followed  the  two  children, 
punctuating  his  bounds  with  vigorous  wagging 
of  the  tail.  He  made  short  sallies  by  the  way, 
hither  and  thither,  covering  thrice  the  distance  with  dis- 
cursive tours  of  his  own.  He  found  a  flat  stone  that  pro- 
jected into  the  water  of  the  brook  and  lay  down  upon  it, 
letting  the  water  cover  his  luxurious  person. 

"  It  seems  as  if  the  stone  had  been  just  waiting  for  him, " 
remarked  Rue. 

"Tain't  a  bad  fit,  that's  right. " 

"I  wonder  if  the  stone  knew  he  was  coming  to-day, 
after  growing  into  that  shape  for  him  so  many  years. 
See!  there's  just  room  for  his  nose  between  his  paws  on 
the  tipmost  edge. " 

"  I  reckon  stones  don't  waste  no  time  a-thinking, "  said 
Lillo  materialistically.  "Hi  there,  did  you  see  that  big 
fellow  jump  outer  the  pool?" 

"What  do  stones  think  about  inside?"  asked  Rue 
earnestly.  As  no  answer  was  forthcoming,  she  answered 
herself  according  to  her  lifelong  habit. 

"Oh,  I  s'pose  they  lean  down  and  look  at  themselves 
in  the  water.  Little  stones  rush  along  and  make  themselves 
round.  Big  stones  like  this  one  stretch  themselves  out  and 

136 


THE  HOMEWARD  WAY  137 

listen  to  the  waterfall  splash-splashing.  The  deep  soft 
moss  creeps  over  them.  Then  they  wait  for  people  to  come 
and  sit  on  them  and  listen  to  the  waterfall. " 

"You're  a  queer  kid, "  said  the  boy. 

"Which  would  you  rather  be,  Lillo,  a  waterfall  or  a 
stone?" 

"  I  dunno.  I  ain't  never  had  to  decide. " 

"A  waterfall  is  a  little  like  always  falling  down-stairs, 
but  a  person  can  get  used  to  almost  anything,  Ellen  says. 
Being  a  waterfall  would  be  cool  and  splashy,  like  going 
barefoot  in  the  rain  with  your  hair  all  spread  out.  But  it 
can't  ever  stop  to  rest  or  to  dry  its  hair  in  the  sun.  A  stone 
rests  all  the  time,  Lillo,  except  the  Rolling-Stone-that- 
Gathers-no-Moss.  Did  you  ever  see  that  stone,  Lillo? 
It  must  be  a  very  awfully  long  hill  it  rolls  down,  as  high  as 
from  heaven  to  hell.  " 

"  You  talk  like  a  book, "  said  Lillo,  laughing,  but  half- 
impatient,  "and  you  don't  know  much,  neither.  I'll  bet 
you  can't  open  this  jack-knife  of  mine.  " 

He  thrust  the  big  knife  into  her  tiny  grasp.  Rue  struggled 
with  the  blade  in  vain,  while  Lillo  watched  her  with 
masculine  calm. 

"There's  a  catch  to  it,"  he  finally  continued.  "You 
push  like  this  and  snap  it  goes.  See?  I've  got  a  rifle  to 
home  you  couldn't  see  into  if  you  studied  it  all  day.  D'j'ever 
load  a  rifle  ?  " 

"  No, "  said  Rue  meekly.  Ammunition  and  rifle  practice 
as  had  previously  been  proved,  were  not  specialties  in  the 
Penrith  curriculum.  Rue  listened  devoutly  to  the  boy's 
description  of  the  glories  of  shooting. 


138  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  I  wouldn't  be  scairt  of  a  man-eating  tiger  if  I  had  my 
old  Winchester  along. " 

"You  are  very  brave,  Lillo.  You  are  like  Gideon  of 
old  or  Genghis  Khan. " 

"  I  don't  know  who  them  fellers  is,  but  I'll  take  your 
word  for  it." 

"Don't  you  know  about  them  or  Prester  John  or 
Achilles  or  Caius  and  Balbus?" 

"  Friends  of  yours  ?  "  questioned  Lillo  carelessly,  running 
over  his  assortment  of  sinkers  and  fish-line. 

"Sort  of,  but  I  don't  like  Caius  and  Balbus  very  much. 
Balbus,  he  has  a  bald  head  like  a  bulb,  a  fat  little  stomach 
and  big  lips  that  look  as  if  they'd  burst  if  you  pinched 
them." 

Lillo's  laugh  gushed  freely  forth.  "Sort  of  vaudeville 
eccentrics,  I  guess, "  he  commented  soothingly. 

"  Caius  is  long  and  thin  and  hay-colored,  with  hair  like 
wisps  of  straw. " 

"  Oh,  I  know  that  team, "  said  Lillo  scornfully.  "  They  do 
turns  at  the  Atlantic  Gardens.  Where'd  you  see  them, 
anyhow  ?  " 

"  I  never  really  saw  them, "  said  Rue.  "  They're  in  the 
Latin  Book." 

"In  the  Latin  Book.  Chimpanzee!  How  do  you  know 
their  looks,  then?" 

"  Oh,  by  their  names.  Names  make  pictures,  you  know. 
Why,  when  I  see  those  names  of  lovely  places  on  the  map 
like  Orinoco  and  Baltic  and  Baghdad,  I  can  see  the  palms 
waving  and  the  snowy  river  and  the  water-jars  in  a  row, 
can't  you  ?  " 


THE  HOMEWARD  WAY  139 

"  You  keep  me  guessin', "  remarked  Lillo  enigmatically. 
"  Is  them  in  the  Latin  Book,  too  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  the  Latin  Book  tells  about  Caius  and  Balbus. 
You  have  to  say  over  and  over  again  like  this:  Balbus, 
of  Balbus,  to  Balbus,  Balbus,  O  Balbus,  with,  by  or  from 
Balbus. " 

"  I  don't  see  any  sense  to  that. " 

"  It's  a  declension. " 

"What's  that?" 

"  Oh,  Lillo,  I  can't  explain.  It's  something  like  a  con- 
jugation, only  a  conjugation  is  long  and  sad.  I  love,  I  was 
loving,  I  did  love  and  it  gets  longer  and  sadder  all  the  time. " 

"That's  all  rot  about  loving.  Ain't  it,  Ponto?" 

Ponto  assented  with  explosive  vehemence. 

"Don't  you  know  about  Amoma-ray-Mavee-matum ? " 
continued  Rue. 

"Never  heard  of  her.  Sounds  like  a  lot  of  Ma's  mixed 
up  all  together.  She  a  friend  of  Balbus  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,  no.  You  don't  understand.  Balbus  has  got  a 
friend,  though,  for  I  looked  ahead  in  the  book  and  it  said, 
Balbus  loves  the  queen.  Did  you  ever  see  a  queen,  Lillo?" 

"  Lots  of  times,  kings  and  queens  with  crowns  on. " 

"Oh,  Lillo!" 

"  Yep.  They  was  on  the  stage,  though. " 

"  What  stage  ?  A  stage  with  horses  ?  " 

"  What  ?  Oh,  you  mean  Ben-Hur.  Say,  if  you  come  to 
N'York  some  time  I'll  take  you  to  a  show.  I'll  bet  you'd 
like  it  pretty  good. " 

"  I'll  ask  Grandfather, "  said  Rue,  her  eyes  shining  with 
delight. 


140  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  You  know  Angela's  on  the  stage,  and  mother,  too.  '* 

"Right  now?  Is  she  going  somewhere  on  the  stage?" 

"  No,  she's  at  the  Red  Bungalow,  resting.  But  she's  in  a 
musical  company,  I  told  you,  and  she  does  the  circuit  or 
sometimes  plays  the  whole  season  in  N'York.  She  likes 
that  best. " 

All  this  was  mystery  to  Rue's  uninitiated  ear,  but  she 
drank  in  the  strangeness  as  ambrosia. 

"Does  she  have  a  voice  like  seraphs  singing?  Tell  me 
some  more. " 

"There  ain't  nothing  more  to  tell,"  said  Lillo,  with 
boyish  scorn  of  expansiveness.  "  She  always  wears  a 
blue  dress  and  she  sits  down  hi  the  field  up  there  and 
sings  to  herself  just  like  a  little  girl. " 

"  I  wish  I  could  play  with  her,"  said  Rue  wistfully,  "  I 
like  tall  ladies  with  lovely  faces. " 

"Yep,"  said  Lillo.  "Hello,  what's  that." 

A  sound  like  distant  thunder  rumbled  on  the  other  side 
of  the  wood. 

"  It's  thunder, "  said  Rue. 

"Them's  wagon- wheels ;  I  reckon  we're  nigh  onto  the 
road." 

They  climbed  through  a  narrow  run  of  bushes  and 
stood  on  a  bare  hilltop.  There  lay  the  road,  the  tact- 
ful road,  so  near  them,  that  had  never  betrayed  its 
presence. 

"What's  the  matter?"  demanded  the  boy,  for  Rue's 
eyes  were  full  of  brooding  wonder. 

"Why,  that's  the  road  that  goes  to  the  post-office,  I 
never  knew. " 


THE  HOMEWARD  WAY  141 

"  Well  I  must  be  hiking  home.  The  Bungalow  is  way  off 
there. " 

Lillo  pointed  to  a  far  blue  hill  that  lay  in  an  opposite 
direction  from  the  village. 

"  Please  go  with  me  as  far  as  the  turn  in  the  road.  It's 
so  lonely  walking  by  myself  after  our  pleasant  conversa- 
tion. " 

"Why  don't  you  take  the  dog  along?  You  ain't 
afraid  that  there  Balbus  'ull  jump  out  on  you  from  the 
trees  ?  "  Lillo  asked  in  sympathetic  jocularity. 

Balbus  was  an  ill-timed  allusion,  bringing  to  mind  not 
only  the  unlearned  declension  that  was  one  of  the  results 
of  this  day's  illicit  deeds,  but  also  Aunt  Serena's  deep- 
seated  disapproval  of  dogs. 

"I  think  I'll  get  Grandfather's  mail.  And  you  call  the 
doggie  back.  He's  a  lovely,  dear  doggie,"  she  added  in 
tones  meant  to  soothe  his  dogship,  "but  Aunt  Serena 
wouldn't  let  me  have  him.  " 

The  post-office  was  a  happy  thought,  for  a  timely 
document  of  importance  would  often  plunge  Grandfather 
into  hours  of  abstraction  and  wipe  out  the  memory  of 
Rue's  blackest  misdeeds.  Under  this  inspiration  her 
spirits  revived. 

"  There  are  so  many  curious  things  in  this  world,  aren't 
there,  Lillo?" 

"  Maybe  so, "  he  gave  a  lordly  non-committal  assent. 

"  There's  the  sky,  just  like  a  blue  bowl.  But  Grandfather 
says  if  you  climbed  up  and  up,  you'd  never  bump  your 
head  or  come  to  it  at  all.  I  didn't  really  quite  believe  him, " 
she  whispered,  "but  I  didn't  dare  tell  him  so.  Then  at 


142  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

night,  all  the  little  shining  stars  and  it's  curious  they  never 
fall  down,  though  on  a  windy  night  I've  seen  them  shake 
like  everything. " 

"  Didn't  you  never  see  a  falling  star  ?  I  did.  " 

"  No,  I  never  did.  I'll  ask  Grandfather.  Wasn't  it  stuck 
in  tight  enough  ?  " 

"  You  go  out  some  summer's  night, "  said  Lillo  impres- 
sively, "  and  you  lay  on  your  back  lookin'  up  and  up  and 
bime-by  you'll  see  a  star  streakin'  it  for  all  it's  worth. 
Then  you  make  a  wish  right  quick,  quicker'n  a  wink,  and 
it'll  come  true." 

"  Oh,  Lillo !  I  will,  I  will.  I  know  what  I'll  wish  for  too. " 
Rue's  eyes  were  misty  with  her  far  wish. 

"What?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you. "  The  little  girl  would  not  for  worlds 
have  confessed  that  she  would  wish  for  a  mother,  a  pretty, 
singing  mother  with  long  braids  of  dandelion  hair,  like 
Angela  at  the  Red  Bungalow. 

"You're  all  right,"  came  Lillo's  hearty  commendation, 
for  he  admired  her  unexpected  reserve.  "  Don't  you  never 
tell  no  one  your  wish  and  it'll  come  truer  yet. " 

They  had  come  to  the  bend  in  the  road.  Lillo,  true  to 
the  letter  of  his  agreement,  with  a  brief  "So  long,"  left 
his  morning's  companion. 

He  mounted  the  high  hill  down  which  they  had  come. 
Soon  he  was  small  in  the  distance,  a  mere  silhouette  on  the 
white  hilltop. 

Would  he  turn  ?  Would  he  look  ?  Rue  waited,  in  tragic 
silence. 

He  stopped.  He  waved  the  tasseled  cap. 


THE  HOMEWARD  WAY  143 

'*  What's  your  name  ?  he  shouted  in  a  huge  voice. 

"  Rue, "  she  boomed  back. 

"  Don't  be  afeard  of  Balbus,  Rue,"  he  thundered  with 
voluminous  laughter. 

Children  think  nothing  of  shouting  from  hilltop  to  hill- 
top. Wraths  and  loves  are  hallooed  across  continental 
spaces  with  no  diminishment  of  intensity.  In  truth,  such 
outland  intimacies  seem  to  gain  Homeric  greatness  with 
the  interval  of  acres  between. 

"  Don't  be  af eared  of  Balbus. "  The  words  came  to  her 
spent  and  small. 

"  I'm  not  afraid, "  she  shouted  back.  She  wished  to  use 
af  eared,  but  to  cast  loose  upon  the  elements  that  reckless 
solicism  —  supposing  Grandfather  should  hear! 

"  I'm  not  afraid.  I'm  thinking  about  Vallombrosa. " 

The  liquid  syllables  floated  to  Lillo  clear  and  gracious 
upon  his  hill-crest. 

"  Vallombrosa  is  it  ?  "  he  bellowed.  "  I  won't  forget. " 

"Vallombrosa,"  she  clarineted. 

"Good-by  Rue." 

"Good-by,  Lillo. " 

The  name  reverberated  from  the  northern  hill  and  died 
a  lingering  death  in  the  wood  of  the  woolly  ferns. 


XIV 
THE  SAD  RETRIBUTIVE  GLOW 

MR.  DEWSNAP,  the  butcher,  bowling  by  in  his 
cart,  watched  the  unceremonious  leave-taking. 
"Holy  Moses!"  he  confided  to  the  terrier. 
"Ef  that  ain't  Justinian  Penrith's  little  girl  and  the  boy 
from  the  Red  Bungalow ! " 

By  which  remark  one  would  be  led  to  infer  that  the  com- 
bination was  noteworthy. 

With  a  palpitating  heart  Rue  peered  through  the  post- 
office  window  and  asked  Mr.  Gideon  for  the  mail.  She 
received  one  letter.  Its  unusual  texture  and  size  as  well  as 
the  picture  in  the  corner  of  the  envelope  aroused  her  atten- 
tion. The  envelope  was  of  thin,  bluish  paper  and  very 
large.  In  one  corner  was  a  blue  stamp  of  a  strange  design 
with  foreign  words  upon  it.  In  the  opposite  corner  was  a 
little  picture,  a  columned  villa,  cypress  trees,  palms,  blue 
lake,  snow-capped  mountains  and  underneath  was  a 
legend  reading,  "  Villa  Giovanoli. " 

Slipping  this  bizarre  and  romantic  missive  under  the 
guimpe  of  her  frock,  she  proceeded  fleet-foot  on  the  home- 
ward path.  Surely  such  silvery  richness  of  illustration  and 
of  epithet  would  divert  from  her  guilty  head  the  bolts  of 
Olympus. 

By  and  by  she  stood  on  the  sumac  hill  and  saw  the  sheen 
144 


THE  SAD  RETRIBUTIVE  GLOW          145 

of  Mr.  Larrabee's  pond  down  in  the  lap  of  the  meadow. 
The  Fairy  Valley  was  far  behind  her  now.  The  bluejay's 
feather,  the  sward  of  violets,  the  rippling  brook,  the  gray- 
eyed  boy,  belonged  to  another  world.  The  duck  pond 
looked  tame  and  forlorn ;  the  ducks  that  preened  themselves 
or  crooked  their  necks  to  fluff  out  a  feather,  seemed  silly, 
inconsequental  creatures.  There  lay  the  winding  path, 
losing  itself  among  the  buttercups,  and  there,  wrapped 
about  in  ominous  silence,  gloomed  the  lavender  house 
with  green  blinds.  The  apple-blossoms  that  had  flushed  so 
charmingly  in  the  morning  now  wore  a  stern  pallor, 
Rue,  ever  liable  to  presentiment,  was  seized  with  fear. 
Well,  indeed,  for  her  was  it  that  she  had  not  brought  home 
with  her  the  lively,  laughing  dog.  Bewitching  as  his  de- 
meanor was,  it  would  not  appear  to  the  family  on  this 
particular  occasion.  Rue  was  sure  that  something  had 
happened  to  Justine.  Between  the  stile  and  the  back 
door  calamity  had  overtaken  her.  A  weeping  group  in  the 
house  tended  the  stricken  form.  What  would  they  say  to 
her  when  she  appeared,  she,  the  guilty  author  of  the 
tragedy  ?  Rue  ran  at  the  top  of  her  speed,  tears  coursing 
down  her  cheeks.  The  interesting  blue  document  in  her 
frock  was  completely  forgotten.  As  she  ran  dreadful 
pictures  were  before  her  of  a  little  white  face  with  closed 
eyes,  and  lips  that  would  never  open  to  say,  "  I  forgive  you, 
Rue." 

Meanwhile,  around  the  corner  of  the  house,  in  the  shade 
of  the  ancient  locust  tree,  sat  a  peaceful  trio,  Grandfather, 
Aunt  Serena  and  Uncle  Rodney  Dove.  Uncle  Rodney's 
visits  were  in  the  spring  and  he  never  announced  his  arrival 


146  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

as  did  Aunt  Elizabeth.  He  was  a  large,  mild  man  of  the  en- 
cyclopaedic type,  who  was  attached  to  a  Boston  publishing 
house.  He  was  continually  editing  classics,  writing  pre- 
faces and  introductions  and  engaged  upon  Collections. 
He  belonged  to  an  author's  club  that  prided  itself  on  being 
the  literary  cult:  the  members  hung  up  their  own  por- 
traits and  autograph  letters  and  had  annual  Ladies'  Days 
when  they  exhibited  themselves  to  an  admiring  public. 
On  such  occasions  the  guests  were  not  apt  to  know  each 
other.  They  stood  around  singly  or  in  self -defensive  pairs 
and  watched  the  literati  chat  with  sisters  and  wives  and 
pour  themselves  tea.  Uncle  Rodney  had  an  enormously 
high  forehead,  a  small  pointed  chin  and  eyes  that  he  hah* 
closed  as  he  talked.  He  had  a  way  of  waiting  an  appreciable 
instant  before  he  recognized  that  you  had  spoken.  He  gave 
an  oracular  turn  to  his  speech  that  left  you  in  doubt  as  to 
his  real  opinion.  This  oracular  vagueness,  the  half-closed 
lids  and  unintelligible  jokes  endowed  him  with  a  reputation 
for  profundity.  His  jokes  were  superhumanly  witty,  be- 
cause he  delivered  himself  with  sphinx-like  gravity, 
slowly  closing  one  eye  and  gazing  at  you  with  the  other  to 
see  if  you  understood.  You  never  did,  but  you  always 
laughed  with  a  sick  feeling  inside  at  your  own  dullness. 
Afterwards  you  agreed  with  Mr.  Dove's  fellow-foot-note 
writers  that  he  was  possessed  of  extraordinary  wit. 

"The  inimitable  kind,"  you  would  say,  "that  loses  by 
repetition. "  No  one  ever  tried  to  reproduce  Rodney  Dove's 
jokes.  At  the  author's  club  and  the  Kelmscott  he  was 
always  relied  upon  for  toasts  and  speeches.  It  is  mainly  a 
reputation  for  wit  that  is  necessary  to  make  people  laugh. 


THE  SAD  RETRIBUTIVE  GLOW          147 

He  and  Justinian  were  old-time  friends  of  Seminary 
days.  They  reveled  in  argument  and  polemic  tilt  one  with 
the  other.  Aunt  Serena  read  to  them  this  afternoon  from 
"  A  Discourse  on  the  Evils  of  Popular  Ignorance. " 

They  abandoned  themselves  to  the  pleasure  of  her 
perfectly  modulated  voice  and  clear  articulation.  She  had 
small  interest  in  John  Foster's  way  of  thinking,  but  fol- 
lowed the  sentences  with  mechanical  intelligence.  Now  and 
again  the  reading  was  interrupted  for  brief  discussion  of 
the  argument  or  critical  approval  of  the  style.  Below  stairs 
in  the  kitchen,  Rue's  plate  of  dinner  was  petrifying  in  the 
warming-oven  and  withheld  justice  was  patiently  awaiting 
its  turn.  The  shadow  of  the  locust-tree  was  lengthening  and 
nearly  reached  the  top  of  the  garden  where  Mr.  Boscoway 
was  digging  up  a  horse-radish  root.  Ellen  was  already 
mixing  cake  for  supper. 

"  How  evident,  then,  is  it  that  among  the  people  of  the 
Jieathen  lands,  under  a  disastrous  ignorance  of  this  and  all 
tJie  other  sublime  truths  that  are  the  most  fit  to  rule  an  im- 
mortal being  during  his  sojourn  on  earth,  no  man  could  feel 
any  peremptory  obligation  to  be  universally  virtuous,  or 
adequate  motives  to  excite  an  endeavor  to  approach  that 
high  attainment,  even  were  there  not  a  perfect  inability  to 
form  the  true  conception  of  it." 

"A  ripe  and  accomplished  mind,"  said  Justinian.  "He 
might  well  be  taken  as  exemplar  by  the  half -fledged  higher 
critics  of  the  present  day. " 

Then  Rue  burst  upon  them  around  the  lengthening 
shadow  of  the  tree.  Disheveled,  flushed,  grass-stained,  two 
unsymmetrical  smutches  of  charcoal,  war-paint  fashion, 


148  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

adorning  her  cheeks  and  mingling  amicably  with  the  tears 
she  had  shed. 

"Aunt  Serena,  Aunt  Serena,  where  is  Justine?"  she 
shouted. 

A  cool  finger  slipped  between  the  pages  of  the  essay.  The 
peaceful  trio  turned  to  view  the  new-comer.  A  quizzical 
smile  twisted  Uncle  Rodney's  mouth  and  he  slowly  closed 
one  eye. 

"  Protegee  Rue  ? "  he  asked  of  Justinian,  knowing  per- 
fectly well  the  facts  in  the  case. 

Aunt  Serena's  eyebrow  went  up  as  she  turned  to  Grand- 
father. 

"  Grandfather,  Grandfather,  where  is  Justine  ?  " 

Justinian  raised  a  rhadamanthine  hand  and  spoke  in 
his  churchliest  peal. 

"  She  came  home  in  safety,  we  are  grateful  to  say.  She 
is  now  asleep.  Where  have  you  been  roaming  during  these 
unlicensed  hours?" 

"Speak  to  your  Uncle  Rodney, "  slipped  in  Aunt  Serena, 
the  punctilious  one. 

Rue,  calmer  now,  though  forecasting  retribution  from 
the  raised  eyebrow  and  the  churchly  tone,  stepped  between 
Uncle  Rodney's  black-trousered  literary  knees  and  was 
kissed  by  him,  grass-stains,  charcoal  smutches  and  all. 
She  was  very  grateful  for  his  presence,  as  it  postponed,  per- 
haps even  averted,  retribution,  a  useful  office  that  company 
sometimes  filled.  Justine  was  safe.  Rue  was  happy,  for- 
getting the  lesser  evil  of  her  own  misdoing. 

"  Oh,  Grandfather,  I  have  had  the  splendidest  time  and 
found  a  Fairy  Valley." 


THE  SAD  RETRIBUTIVE  GLOW          149 

"  That  will  do, "  said  Grandfather,  with  Aunt  Serena's 
admonitory  glance  upon  him.  They  had  discussed  Rue's 
delinquencies  in  her  absence  and  decided  upon  a  course  of 
correction.  Uncle  Rodney,  himself  outside  the  circle  of 
discipline,  had  an  outsider's  pity  for  the  radiant  little  face, 
now  dimmed. 

"  So  you  have  been  playing  gipsy  ?  "  he  said. 

Grandfather  felt  that  it  was  unfortunate  for  Uncle 
Rodney  by  this  badinage  to  divest  the  home-coming  of 
solemnity.  Only  good  little  children  should  be  dallied  with. 
But  Mr.  Dove  enjoyed  the  immunity  of  company  and  was 
allowed  to  retain  one  of  Rue's  small  brown  hands,  stroking 
it  tenderly. 

Rue  looked  at  him  gravely.  She  did  not  quite  understand 
him,  but  he  interested  her  something  as  did  the  picture 
Eternity.  His  utterances  were  symbols,  and  she  respected 
them  accordingly. 

"  Did  you  find  the  rest  of  your  tribe  in  the  outland,  little 
wanderer  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir.  I  found  one  of  them.  He  was  the  barefoot 
boy  out  of  the  picture. " 

Uncle  Rodney  closed  one  eye  and  glimpsed  at  Justinian. 

"  Rosalind  and  her  Orlando !  How  intuitive  the  affinity. 
Verses  engraved  on  trees  — 

Rue  withdrew  her  hand  and  ran  passionately  into  the 
house.  She  might  have  told  Uncle  Rodney  about  Lillo  and 
the  open-mouthed  dog,  but  she  would  not  do  so  now.  She 
would  not  tell  any  one.  He  was  laughing  at  her  and  saying 
things  in  cipher  on  purpose  so  that  she  could  not  understand. 

"  Go  through  the  house  very  quietly, "  said  Aunt  Serena, 


150  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  Justine  is  tired  out  with  her  crying,  and  we  want  her  to 
sleep. " 

Rue's  heart  was  heavy.  She  knew  that  catastrophe  was 
merely  postponed  and  had  no  appetite  for  her  dried-up 
dinner.  At  least,  she  would  tell  no  one  about  Lillo.  That 
secret  should  be  all  her  own. 

"Your  little  Rue  has  a  most  interesting  personality," 
said  Rodney.  "  You  have  never  —  ' 

Mr.  Dove  seldom  asked  a  direct  question.  Instead,  he 
paused  midway  and  fluted  his  lips  outward. 

"  Never, "  answered  Justinian  sternly,  avoiding  Rodney's 
glance.  "Shall  we  continue  reading,  Serena?" 

But  Mr.  Dove  had  something  on  his  mind  to  say  and 
was  not  to  be  deterred  by  sternness.  He  was  obtuse. 

"Danae  has  recently  been  hi  New  York,"  Rodney 
spoke  quietly.  "  She  goes  under  a  different  name.  She  — 

"  Stop,"  roared  Justinian,  turning  ashen  with  anger  and 
pain.  "  I  have  forbidden  her  name. " 

"  You  are  breaking  your  own  heart,  perhaps  hers.  She  is 
your  daughter —  " 

"I  have  no  daughter.  Enough!" 

Uncle  Rodney  was  as  pale  as  Grandfather  and  his 
heavy  eyelids  twitched.  Aunt  Serena's  breath  came  in 
gasps.  Justinian  rose  from  his  chair.  He  stumbled  over 
the  rug  which  fell  from  his  knees.  He  strode  to  the  garden, 
leaving  Aunt  Serena  and  Mr.  Dove  in  silence.  There  in 
the  garden  he  gave  terrific  orders  to  Mr.  Boscoway  about 
the  extermination  of  currant  worms.  He  inspected  the 
strawberry  bed.  By  the  time  he  returned  he  had  forced 
his  face  into  an  expression  of  calm  cheer. 


THE  SAD  RETRIBUTIVE  GLOW          151 

"  Not  a  prolific  bearer,  but  a  prodigious  size,"  he  said, 
handing  Rodney  an  enormous  berry  he  had  picked. 
"  Shall  we  finish  the  discourse,  Serena  ?  " 

Soon  Aunt  Serena  was  called  into  the  house  by  Justine's 
awakening  voice  and  in  the  interval  of  her  absence  Justin- 
ian talked  uninterruptedly  about  his  mule-back  experience 
in  the  hills  above  Jericho.  When  Aunt  Serena  again  opened 
the  green  blind  door,  Justine,  crisp  and  shining,  hung 
to  her  skirts.  A  neat  pink  scratch  was  diagonally  inscribed 
across  her  cheek.  It  was  the  result  of  pushing  through  the 
blackberry-vines  that  draped  the  stile,  when  her  eyes 
were  blinded  by  that  last  magnificent  cataract  of  voluntary 
woe.  The  pain  of  the  scratch  was  a  small  price  to  pay  for 
the  ensuing  halo.  The  scratch  was  her  visible  attachment 
upon  the  sympathies  of  her  world.  It  bore  mute  circum- 
stantial witness  to  the  naughtiness  of  Rue.  Like  a  dumb 
mouth  it  oped  its  ruby  lips.  Justine  wore  the  saintly  look 
of  a  child  whose  companion  is  plunged  in  disgrace. 

"  Did  you  wish  to  speak  with  Rue  ?  "  asked  Aunt  Serena 
of  Justinian. 

Rue,  in  that  state  of  cleanliness  which  was  to  her  as 
sackcloth  and  ashes,  sat  upon  the  play-box  in  the  entry 
and  heard  these  fatal  words. 

Grandfather  excused  himself  to  his  guest,  offering  him 
the  freedom  of  the  orchard  and  garden.  He  went  within. 
There  sat  Rue  upon  the  box  behind  the  door.  Her  curls 
had  the  moist  look  of  a  recent  coiffureing  and  a  fresh  rose- 
colored  bow  was  perched  above  her  ear,  but  her  mouth 
drooped.  She  held  in  her  hand  the  blue  letter,  harbinger 
of  peace  (  as  she  hoped  ),  between  herself  and  Grandfather. 


152  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  Here  is  a  letter  for  you,  Grandfather,  "  she  said,  in  a 
dove's  voice. 

"I  will  commune  with  you  in  my  room,"  said  Grand- 
father. He  pocketed  in  silence  the  ungrateful,  the  hard- 
hearted, the  unachieving  letter. 

When  he  "communed"  with  Rue,  the  themes  were  al- 
ways solemn.  Results  were,  for  Rue,  tearful;  for  Grand- 
father, gravely  triumphant.  The  walls  of  his  room  took 
sides  with  him,  the  victor,  the  arabesques  of  the  wall-paper 
making  round  defiant  eyes  at  her,  and  writhing  contemptu- 
ous limbs.  The  carpet  also  became  partizan  and  squirmed 
away  from  her  guilty  feet,  in  its  pattern  of  numberless 
astonished  jugs,  with  disdainful  roses  uprearing  therefrom. 
Even  the  baize-covered  desk  with  its  lower  drawer  ajar 
thrust  out  a  contumelious  lip.  There  was  no  comfort  to 
be  gained  from  them.  This  afternoon  Rue  struggled  hard 
to  restrain  the  tears  and  to  "  deport  herself  with  womanly 
fortitude.  "  She  wanted  to  win  back  Grandfather's  respect. 
Casting  about  for  a  trustworthy  anchorage  to  her  dis- 
tracted vision,  she  beheld  the  mahogany  sofa  upon  which 
Grandfather  took  his  indoor  naps.  She  had  discovered  an 
ally.  Though  slippery-bosomed  and  of  a  dark  unrelenting 
complexion,  it  wore  the  tragic  air  of  one  who  has  suffered 
in  silence. 

"  I  know, "  it  said,  "  I  know.  I,  too,  have  been  through 
deep  waters.  I  have  been  scourged  and  afflicted. " 

The  horsehair  upholstery  was  depressed  in  hollows 
where  generations  of  heads  had  lain.  The  seams  parted 
between  horsehair  and  mahogany  and  gave  hints  of  sub- 
terranean depths.  Once  Rue,  forcing  an  inquisitive  hand 


THE  SAD  RETRIBUTIVE  GLOW          153 

into  the  moraine  between  seat  and  back,  had  discovered  a 
fissure  and  from  that  fissure  she  withdrew,  after  long 
burrowing,  a  copper  penny  of  a  very  ancient  date  and  an 
unknown  doll's  red  shoe.  The  whole  sofa  was  probably 
stuffed  with  antiquarian  delights.  Aunt  Serena  promptly 
sealed  over  the  aperture  and  the  small  fingers  were  for- 
bidden to  go  again  adventuring  for  buried  treasure  in  the 
depths  of  the  mahogany  sofa. 

"  This  too,  will  pass, "  said  the  sofa.  "  Look  at  me  and 
be  strong.  In  hours  of  sickness  I  have  been  ever  ready.  In 
happy  days  I  am  forgotten. " 

Rue  swallowed  and  looked  hard  at  the  distorted  re- 
flections of  things  in  the  huge  legs  of  the  sofa.  Grandfather 
discoursed  to  her  of  ethical  values.  Rue  awaited  the 
material  consequences  befalling  her.  Going  without  fruit- 
cake at  one's  supper,  for  instance,  sums  up  in  a  nutshell 
the  ethical  tendency  of  one's  conduct.  It  is  more  concise 
and  clarifying  than  treatises.  Grandfather  did  not  seem 
approaching  the  appropriate  climax  or  summing  up  at 
the  chapter's  end. 

"  Loyalty  to  one's  charge  or  responsibility,  faithful  devo- 
tion to  one's  duty,  characterize  the  truly  estimable  person. 
These  intimations  of  moral  stability  in  the  individual  are 
salient  at  the  tenderest  age.  Do  you  apprehend  my  position, 
Rue  ?  At  the  most  tender  age ! " 

This  cannibal  allusion  to  her  tenderness  wounded  her 
deeply.  Grandfather  bent  a  Miltonic  brow  upon  her, 
demanding  answer.  He  liked  to  be  sure  that  he  was  making 
himself  intelligible  to  the  young. 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  replied  weepingly.  "I  apprehend.  But 


154  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

you  wouldn't  let  me  be  —  eaten,  would  you,  Grandfather  ?" 
she  sobbed,  attempting  a  little  joke,  for  jokes  often  melted 
Grandfather's  stony  heart.  "I'm,  I'm  n-not  so  tender  as 
Justine. " 

This  last  was  unworthy,  even  as  pleasantry,  and  Rue  in  a 
moment  was  ashamed  of  herself,  for  if  she  was  undeserving 
such  a  fate,  much  more  the  sinless  and  sinned-against 
Justine.  Grandfather  did  not  seem  to  notice,  but,  like  the 
chariot  of  the  Son,  with  dreadful  shade  contiguous  "he 
right  onward  drave,  gloomy  as  night.  " 

"  The  consequences  of  such  dereliction  cannot  fail  to  be 
disintegrating  and  ultimately  disastrous.  Do  you  concur 
with  me  in  this  opinion  ?  " 

Grandfather  favored  the  Socratic  method  and  gently 
drew  along  the  penitent  to  the  most  self-depreciatory 
admissions.  It  had  come  to  the  point  with  Rue  where  she 
courted  her  doom. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  occur  with  you,"  she  lisped  meekly,  "and 
shall  I  have  to  go  without  c-cake-and  —  and  strawberries, 
too,  shall  I,  Grandfather  ?  " 

She  hugged  the  arm  of  the  sofa  for  support  and  sym- 
pathy. 

Grandfather  loved  Rue  when  her  eyes  danced  and  her 
hands  twinkled.  If  there  was  a  time  when  he  loved  her 
more  than  another,  it  was  now,  her  chin  trembling  and 
her  pretty  eyes  overflowing  with  lucent  sorrow.  He  rose, 
came  to  her  and  drew  her  head  against  his  breast.  The 
starry  wings  of  tribulation  were  lifted,  the  dreadful 
shade  contiguous  diminished  and  grew  remote. 

"  I  think  we  will  consider  the  score  wiped  out, "  he  said 


THE  SAD  RETRIBUTIVE  GLOW          155 

gently,  "  and  you  may  begin  to-morrow  on  a  new  slate. " 

Grandfather  had  such  odd  and  picturesque  ways  of 
expressing  himself. 

"Perhaps  it  will  be  best  for  you  to-morrow  to  stay 
closely  by  my  side  and  not  indulge  yourself  in  any  venture- 
some expeditions.  I  think  this  will  be  decidedly  for  the 
best. " 

He  was  sure  that  Aunt  Serena  would  agree  with  him. 

"You  will  stay  closely  by  my  side  to-morrow.  Uncle 
Rodney  and  I  shall  be  in  serious  conversation  and  if  you 
are  docile  and  attentive  you  will  have  the  opportunity  to 
be  greatly  edified. " 

"  What  is  'edified'  ?  "  asked  Rue  with  a  luminous  smile. 
Grandfather  smiled  approvingly  and  answered.  Then  Rue 
went  on  to  seek  further  definitions. 

"  What  is  a  circuit,  Grandfather  ?  " 

"A  circuit  is,  I  should  say,  a  path  or  course  tending  to 
the  circular.  In  brief,  a  circle.  " 

"And  Grandfather,  Uncle  Rodney  is  a  company,  isn't 
he  ?  And  if  he  played  the  piano  or  sang  tunes  he  would  be  a 
musical  company,  wouldn't  he  ?  " 

"  Just  what  have  you  in  mind,  dear  ?  " 

"  I  heard  Lillo  —  I  mean  some  one  —  talk  about  a 
'musical  company.' " 

"That  was,  doubtless,  in  reference  to  a  gathering  of 
people  musically  inclined.  A  few  elect  souls  who  meet 
together  for  mutual  delectation.  To  sing,  to  play,  —  per- 
haps the  violin  —  the  harp  —  " 

Grandfather,  in  his  younger  days,  had  been  a  clever 
amateur  musician.  Danae's  mother  had  played  the  harp. 


156  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

How  little  music  there  had  been  at  Penrith  House  since 
those  young  days. 

"  Thank  you,  Grandfather, "  said  Rue. 

Both  lost  themselves  in  reflections. 

Rue  imagined  a  few  Elect  Souls,  hand  in  hand,  forever 
floating  about  some  charmed  circle,  warbling  soft  airs  or 
touching  golden  strings.  And  of  that  beatific  number 
Angela,  the  dandelion-haired,  was  one,  for  she  was  a 
friend  of  Lillo's  mother,  who  did  the  circuit  in  a  musical 
company.  Rue,  lost  in  meditation,  rested  her  little  brown 
face  in  the  cup  of  her  two  hands.  Its  wistfulness  touched 
him.  What  profound  sorrow  was  she  brooding  upon  ? 

'*  A  penny  for  your  thoughts,  dear  ?  he  said,  a  richness 
transforming  his  stern  face. 

"  Now,  now  is  the  felicitous  moment  for  asking  a  favor, " 
Rue  read  in  his  transformed  features. 

"  Grandfather,  will  you  buy  me  a  lovely,  laughing  dog,  a 
black  dog  with  brown  streaks  in  his  fur  and  with  dancing 
feet?" 

Grandfather  patted  her  head.  "  If  your  Aunt  Serena  is 
willing,"  he  said,  with,  oh,  what  unfathomed  irony,  only 
those  who  know  Aunt  Serena  can  understand. 


XV 
THE  LETTER 

GRANDFATHER    opened    the  letter    with    the 
Italian  postmark.  Without  stopping  to  read,  he 
glanced    over  the  strange    handwriting    till  he 
came  to  the  signature,  Frederick  Droll,  a  name  new  to  him. 
He  put  on  his  double  pair  of  glasses  and  frowned  intent- 
ly at  the  thin  sheet.  It  ran  as  follows: 

Cadennabbia,  Italy,  May  10th. 
Dear  Sir: — 

On  June  tenth,  at  six  in  the  evening  I  shall  be 
at  10  Throckmorton  Street,  New  York  City  and  shall  await 
the  honor  of  your  presence.  I  have  matters  of  moment  to 
unfold  to  you  in  regard  to  your  kin  and  also  the  matter  of  a 
legacy  to  lay  before  you,  in  which  the  child  Rue  is  concerned. 
Respectfully  yours, 

Frederick  Droll. 


157 


XVI 
WHILE  THE  FIREFLIES  PLAYED 

THE  wind  stirred  in  the  wistaria  vines.  The 
pendulous  blooms  gave  themselves  graciously 
forth  in  odor.  The  late  twilight  hovered  delicate- 
ly, rising  and  falling  like  mist.  Here  and  there,  where  the 
lilac-bushes,  the  sweet-apple-tree  or  the  stile  drew  about 
themselves  nuclei  of  darkness  the  twilight  ran  together 
into  blots  of  thicker  night.  In  the  damp  places  of  the 
meadow  below  the  Penrith  piazza  a  host  of  fireflies 
sparkled  in  and  out  like  bits  of  flying  mica  or  motes  of 
kindled  dust.  They  wove  themselves  into  unconscious 
patterns,  like  Japanese  decorations  become  miraculously 
animate.  They  glowed,  now  large,  now  small,  or  melted 
altogether;  they  burned  pale  blue,  star-green  and  rose- 
yellow,  with  infinite  wayward  art  and  naive  display  of 
motive  and  perspective. 

Down  in  the  long  grass  of  the  meadow  the  twilight 
found  voice  in  a  filmy  multitudinous  murmur  more  tender 
than  silence.  Above,  half-way  between  the  top  of  the 
sweet-apple-tree  and  the  western  star,  an  adventurous 
firefly  swung  his  lamp  against  the  lavender  sky-spaces. 

"Danae  was  my  sister's  child,"  said  Uncle  Rodney, 
taking  courage  from  the  silence  and  the  twilight. 

Justinian  stared  resolutely  toward  the  western  star. 

158 


WHILE  THE  FIREFLIES  PLAYED         159 

"My  only  sister's  only  child,"  added  Rodney,  in  a 
voice  from  which  he  could  not  suppress  the  emotion. 
Pity  for  Danae  and  for  Justinian  were  his  emotions,  and 
they  were  not  unmixed  with  a  dread  of  Justinian's  anger 
at  these  renewed  references  to  a  forbidden  subject.  Jus- 
tinian Penrith  had  that  inexplicable  faculty,  resident  in  a 
few  men,  of  inspiring  fear  in  his  fellow-men.  This  faculty 
is  often  combined  with  an  almost  irresistible  charm  of 
demeanor.  Both  traits  Justinian  had  in  his  youth  possessed. 
But  with  increasing  years  and  seclusion  from  society  had 
come  a  tragic  and  unexpressed  bitterness  such  as  often 
springs  from  the  possession  of  noble  endowment  inade- 
quately employed.  This  bitterness  of  soul,  coupled  with 
indomitable  pride  and  with  the  ever-burning  memory 
of  his  daughter's  nameless  fate,  had  robbed  the  man  of 
his  old-time  grace  and  graciousness.  It  had  left  him  with 
the  severe  lip  and  the  penetrating  eye  and  that  something 
behind  the  eye  which  made  resistance  to  his  will  a  supreme 
effort.  One  caught  one's  breath  and  clinched  one's  hand 
before  one  offered  an  opposing  theory  as  to  the  birthplace 
of  Homer  or  the  cause  of  the  locust-blight.  While  to  carry 
on  a  discussion  of  length  one  set  one's  teeth  as  against  a  stiff 
north  wind,  and  this  without  any  bullying  or  bluster  from 
Justinian.  There  sat  something  in  the  glance  of  his  deep  blue 
eye  that,  like  a  god  on  a  rock,  laughed  at  mortals.  One  was 
impious  to  defy.  It  had  taken  soft  little  Danae  to  defy  to 
the  uttermost.  And  the  god  still  sat  on  the  rock,  calm, 
unmoved.  Only  the  far  away  heavens  knew  that  the 
years  beat  on  a  naked  heart,  naked,  withering  but  not 
broken. 


160  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Rodney  Dove  pooh-poohed  in  Ijis  own  house  at  Penrith's 
extraordinary  will  power. 

"  Merely  an  illusion  people  have  —  ah  —  concerning  — 
he  would  say  to  Aunt  Elizabeth.  "A  trick  with  the  eye- 
brows and  a  good  bass  voice.  Penrith  might  have  made  an 
unusual  orator  if  he  had  not  —  ah  —  these  crotchets  and 
theories  of  his  —  they  do  not  take  with  the  gallery. " 

In  all  of  which,  as  will  be  seen,  Rodney  Dove  spoke 
oracularly  and  committed  himself  to.  no  indiscretion. 
Yet  it  cannot  be  denied  that  on  Justinian's  piazza  as  he 
spoke  the  name  of  Danae,  his  voice  shook  and  his  hands 
were  singularly  cold.  Why  had  he  not  a  right  to  speak? 
Heavens,  was  it  not  true,  as  he  said,  that  Danae  was  his 
sister's  child,  his  only  sister's  only  child  ? 

Out  of  a  long  silence  Justinian  answered,  in  a  voice  as 
calm  and  deep  as  Rodney's  had  been  troubled  and  mezzo- 
soprano. 

"  You  are  right  and  I  am  wrong,  Rodney.  Danae  is  — 
was  —  near  to  you.  What  have  you  done  to  find  her,  these 
many  years  ? 

The  man  addressed  understood  better  now  the  other's 
gentleness.  Rodney  had  done  nothing  to  find  Danae. 
His  course  of  conduct  had  various  causes,  among  which 
his  own  natural  passivity  and  the  fact  that  there  was  nothing 
obvious  to  be  done  stood  chief. 

Besides,  to  search  for  a  person  wilfully  lost  involves 
much  money  or  much  time  or  much  energy  and  none 
of  these  commodities  did  Rodney  Dove  have  to  spare. 
Again,  when  Danae  first  sank  below  the  surface  (at  least, 
so  it  would  have  been  described  by  the  Penriths  or  the 


WHILE  THE  FIREFLIES  PLAYED         161 

Rodney  Doves),  it  had  been  Rodney's  dread  that  she  would 
appear  only  to  drag  the  family  name  down  with  her  into 
the  mire  of  notoriety.  For  to  a  Dove  and  a  Boston  Dove, 
the  mildest  breath  of  scandal  was  as  the  odor  of  sulphur 
and  brimstone. 

The  reasons  that  had  once  deterred  him  from  vigorous 
action  were  as  complex  as  were  now  the  reasons  that 
urged  him  to  express  himself  to  his  brother-in-law.  There- 
fore he  answered  sun  ply: 

"It  was  your  wish,  Justinian,  that  I  should  not  lift  a 
hand  to  find  her. " 

This  was  true.  Justinian  quivered  slightly  and  drew  the 
rug  more  closely  about  him  hi  the  steamer-chair.  The 
innocent  fireflies  gayly  wove  their  silent  symphony. 

"  Who  knows  but  I  have  been —  " 

Should  he  say  wrong  ?  No,  no,  Justinian  Penrith  could 
not  have  been  in  the  wrong,  the  radical  and  far-reaching 
wrong  that  this  wrould  have  been  — "  in  some  respects 
perhaps,  in  error.  I  have  not  searched  for  —  the  lost  one,  — 
since  those  fruitless  months  some  years  ago.  Have  you 
learned  anything  —  lately  —  of  the  whereabouts  of  — 
Danae  ?  " 

The  father  in  him  spoke,  forced  to  utterance.  Rodney 
answered  deliberately,  weighing  each  word  as  if  in  his 
hand,  before  he  passed  it  out  as  coin. 

"  A  year  ago  when  I  was  in  New  York,  stopping  at  the 
Gilsey  House,  as  is  my  custom,  I  ran  across  Billy  Urquardt, 
you  remember  him  —  he  called  on  you  here  some  twelve 
years  ago  —  when  Danae  was  trying  her  hand  at  sculpture. " 

"Yes,  yes,",  interrupted  Justinian  sharply,  as  if  hurt. 


162  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  In  Peter  Kenyon's  time  —  curious  chap  —  that  —  Yes, 
you  know  I  always  connected  him  with  Danae's  dis- 
appearance. " 

Rodney  was  feeling  his  way  slowly  —  things  that  for 
years  he  had  wished  to  say  were  finding  outlet. 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  what  of  this  Urquardt  man  —  and 
Danae?" 

"You  know  he  is  on  the  Theatrical  Review.  Does  a 
lot  of  odd  literary  jobs,  besides.  He  came  home  late  one 
night,  had  been  out  to  some  theatrical  show  or  other. 
Knocked  at  my  door  in  great  excitement.  'I've  seen  a 
face  I  know,'  he  said.  'Didn't  —  didn't  —  Dr.  Justinian 
Penrith  have  a  pretty  daughter,  who  ran  away,  eloped  or 
some  such  romance?  I've  seen  her  at  the  theater.  One 
of  the  singing  girls  in  The  Pretty  Maidens.  Not  an  ex- 
traordinary voice,  but  a  languid  way  with  her  that  has  its 
own  distinction.  I  never  forget  a  face.'  That's  what  Ur- 
quardt said." 

"  Well  ?  "  questioned  Justinian,  the  friendly  dark  hiding 
the  shrunkenness  of  his  face. 

"I  went  to  the  play  the  night  after.  No  Danae  ap- 
peared. Made  inquiries  at  the  box-office  and  about. 
You  know  I'm  not  used  to  those  places  and  am  a  little 
awkward  in  getting  at  the  proper  sources  of  information. 
A  singer  had  fainted  the  night  before  and  some  one  gone 
on  as  substitute.  It  may  have  been  Danae.  They  did  not 
know  her  name,  or  pretended  not  to.  I  could  not  guess  an 
identity  under  an  assumed  name.  So  there  it  stands, 
Justinian.  I  give  you  the  information  for  what  it's  worth. 
It  may  be  much  or  it  may  be  little.  " 


WHILE  THE  FIREFLIES  PLAYED         163 

Justinian  wrote  down,  in  the  darkness,  the  name  of  the 
play,  the  name  and  location  of  the  theater.  There  was 
silence  again.  It  was  bedtime  for  the  fireflies.  Only  a  few 
eccentric  lamps  flitted  through  the  twilight.  The  western 
star  had  grown  very  large  and  the  night  was  black. 

Rodney  put  a  hand  on  Justinian's  knee,  an  unim- 
passioned  hand  on  the  thin,  cold  knee. 

"Perhaps  the  mother  could  be  reached  through  the 
child,"  said  Mr.  Dove,  "through  little  Rue." 

"Your  presumption  is  absolutely  unfounded,"  said 
Justinian  passionately.  "No  one  that  lives  shall  dare  con- 
nect little  Rue  with  —  with  —  with  —  " 

But  he  was  powerless  to  frame  the  word  and  choked  in 
silence.  "  There  may  be  some  tragedy  connected  with  Rue's 
birth  and  parentage.  I  have  let  her  call  me  Grandfather 
because  it  seemed  most  fitting.  Rodney,  there  is  absolutely 
no  clue  in  the  world  that  connects  Rue  with  my  daughter 
Danae. " 

"  Have  you  any  clue  whatever  to  her  origin  ?  " 

"  There  is  one  clue,  which  circumstances  will  soon  allow, 
nay,  force  me  to  follow  up. " 

This  was  the  frankest  revelation  that  Justinian  had  ever 
made.  Rodney  Dove  trembled  at  the  thought  of  the  depths 
which  gave  it  forth.  Justinian  blindly  continued  to  fortify 
his  weakest  position,  and  like  many  a  besieged  man  of  old, 
thereby  brought  it  to  notice. 

"There  is  more  reason  to  think  that  Rue  is  the  gipsy 
child  of  that  summer  than  that  —  she  is  my  own  blood. 
Yet  I  am  attached  to  her,"  he  hastened  to  add,  "  as  if,  - 
she  were  my  own  flesh  and  blood. " 


164  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Up-stairs  in  her  West  Room,  Rue,  the  unwitting  subject 
of  this  piazza  talk,  slept  and  dreamed.  She  dreamed  of 
Lillo,  of  the  violets  which  she  had  left  behind  her.  Some- 
times she  sobbed  in  her  sleep  at  the  image  of  Justine 
drowning  in  the  rapids  of  the  brook,  sometimes  she  smiled 
at  the  image  of  Justine  riding  the  chiefmost  duck  of  a 
whole  flotilla  and  bobbing  up  and  down  on  an  ocean  of 
cookies.  Rue  was  at  all  times  subject  to  vivid,  often  har- 
rowing dreams.  Dreams  of  the  Resurrection  Day  and  a 
world  on  fire,  or  of  her  loved  ones  walking  behind  her  on  a 
narrow  bridge,  of  souls  above  yawning  chaos  dropping  off 
one  by  one  with  heartrending  cries  —  these  visited  her 
night  hours.  On  the  other  hand,  there  were  delicious 
dreams  of  blossom-clad  mountains  floating  to  the  middle  of 
the  sky  and  of  ravishing  streams  down  which  she  swam 
in  a  transport  of  ease  and  power  out  into  an  ocean  of  peace. 

To-night,  her  dreams  were  not  of  mighty  doings,  but 
they  were  pathetic  and  whimsical,  akin  to  her  evening 
mood  when  she  had  caught  a  firefly  and  shut  it  in  her  desk, 
and  said  good-night  to  her  evening  star  before  she  went 
to  bed.  She  dreamed  of  looking  for  the  Red  Bungalow  and 
of  finding  it  in  her  own  garden,  where  it  had  been,  strangely 
unnoticed,  all  these  years. 

"  The  circumstance  of  her  being  left  on  your  door-step 
—  "  began  Rodney  gently,  deliberately  — 

"  Is  the  only  circumstance  favoring  your  theory  —  " 
finished  Justinian. 

"  And  yet  you  undertook  her  maintenance  —  you  choose 
that  she  should  bear  your  name.  * 

Justinian  leaned  forward,  placing  both  his  hands  on 


WHILE  THE  FIREFLIES  PLAYED         165 

Rodney's  shoulders.  Rodney  could  see  the  flame  in  his  eyes. 

"  If  I  had  known  her  to  be  Danae's  daughter,  I  would 
not  have  done  those  things  — ' 

This  was  spoken  with  extreme  solemnity.  Not  till  that 
moment  did  Rodney  Dove  realize  the  implacability  of 
his  brother-in-law's  nature. 

"  If  the  knowledge  should  now  transpire  —  " 

"You  have  no  clue?"  cried  Justinian,  startled  into  a 
surmise  by  Rodney's  persistence. 

"None  whatever. " 

"  God  grant  there  may  never  be,  if  such  is  the  case. " 

Justinian,  as  if  apart  from  himself,  had  a  clairvoyant's 
vision  of  his  own  rigor  and,  as  if  he  were  two  persons,  a 
part  of  him  stood  in  awe  of  the  other's  insane  self-will. 

"  If  Danae  were  sick  or  in  need  —  I  would  help  her,  — 
I  would  never  call  her  daughter  —  " 

There  was  no  love,  nor  tenderness  in  Justinian's  tone. 
Had  he  steeled  himself  to  speak  so  ?  Or  had  love  died  out  ? 
Or  was  it  crushed,  yet  dormant  ? 

"  She  should  not  come  to  my  house  —  nor  call  me  father. 
But  I  would  help  her,  if  she  were  sick  or  in  need. " 

He  had  forgotten  Rodney's  presence  and  talked  low  to 
himself.  "  But  the  child  —  I  love  as  my  own  soul.  God 
help  me  to  be  just  to  her,  to  be  just  and  tender. " 


XVII 
THE  CONFIDANT 

AFTER  the  episode  of  the  Fairy  Valley  and  Lillo, 
the   air  was   full  of  romance.    Uncle   Rodney's 
visit  was  the  occasion  for  many  long  conferences. 
On  his  last  day  they  all  had  a  picnic  together  in  a  ravine, 
which  the  inhabitants  of  Joppa  called  East  Thessaly  Gulf. 

After  he  left,  there  seemed  some  new  excitement  afoot. 
Aunt  Serena  and  Grandfather  closeted  themselves  for 
hours  in  the  library.  The  blue  letter  with  the  picture  on  the 
envelope  was  the  disturbing  cause,  for  often  it  lay  on  the 
table  between  Grandfather  and  Aunt  Serena  in  the  midst 
of  other  documents.  Rue  thought  she  could  be  of  great 
assistance  to  them  in  their  weighty  discussions,  if  she 
were  only  made  cognizant  of  the  situation. 

"  It  is  all  a  curious  matter  and  is  bound  in  the  nature 
of  things  soon  to  be  cleared  up, "  said  Grandfather. 

Rue  sat  between  the  two  compartments  of  the  large 
secretary,  where  the  waste-paper  basket  generally  stood. 
She  was  reading  a  story  in  an  old  number  of  Peterson's 
Magazine.  "  The  Fate  of  Lovely  Lucy, "  it  was  called. 

"  If  we  only  had  some  other  clue, "  said  Aunt  Serena, 
"some  starting  point  where  we  could  look  first. " 

"  Why  don't  we  begin  looking  in  the  Red  Bungalow  ? " 
issued  from  under  the  secretaiy  in  Rue's  deep  voice. 

166 


THE  CONFIDANT  167 

"  I  did  not  know  that  child  was  here, "  said  Aunt  Serena, 
her  keen  brown  glance  uprooting  Rue  from  her  shady 
cavern. 

"  You  may  retire  to  your  proper  element, "  said  Grand- 
father, with  a  pleasant  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  something  important  about  the 
Red  Bungalow,"  the  child  insisted,  reluctantly  going  to 
the  door. 

"  Go  and  tell  Justine  about  it, "  soothed  poor  Aunt 
Serena,  who  so  seldom  understood. 

If  Justine  was  the  "  proper  element, "  it  was  not  there 
that  Rue  went.  Justine  was  too  young  to  understand  such 
experiences  as  fall  to  the  lot  of  seven-year  old  persons. 
She  was  too  concrete  and  her  sympathies,  though  ready, 
were  uncertain  of  direction.  They  took  the  unexpected 
channel.  When  Aunt  Serena  told  her  a  solemn  Christmas 
tale  of  the  shepherds  and  the  Christ-Child  and  the  manger- 
bed,  Justine's  tears  freely  fell,  not,  however,  for  the  blessed 
Child,  but  the  poor  beast  cheated  out  of  its  manger. 
When  Grandfather  vividly  portrayed  a  banquet  scene  and 
spoke  of  the  groaning  boards,  Justine's  wrath  was  aroused. 
It  was  several  days  before  she  ceased  her  disinterested 
expressions  of  sympathy  for  those  anguished  boards. 
There  were,  it  will  be  observed,  adequate  reasons  why 
Rue  could  not  pour  her  secrets  into  Justine's  ear. 

Aunt  Serena  was  too  busy  to  listen  well,  said,  "  H  'm, 
h  'm, "  suspiciously  often  and  at  inappropriate  places,  and 
sometimes  turned  away,  thinking  the  end  had  already  come, 
just  before  the  climax.  Grandfather  was  appreciative,  if  one 
caught  him  at  the  felicitous  moment.  But  one  was  apt  to 


168  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

err  in  this  respect,  to  break  in  on  a  valuable  train  of  thought 
or  interrupt  a  two  o'clock  meditation.  When  Grandfather 
was  not  all-embracing  sunshine,  he  was  Stygian  gloom. 
Sometimes  Rue  thought  she  preferred  Aunt  Serena's 
eternal  calm  to  such  extremes  of  climate  as  irradiated  from 
Grandfather's  presence. 

Beggars  cannot  be  choosers.  The  starving  do  not  dis- 
criminate. At  one's  hour  of  greatest  loneliness  are  friends 
most  easily  made.  It  was  the  propitious  hour  for  the  hoary- 
faced  dog  to  insinuate  himself  upon  Rue's  attention.  Rue 
met  him  as  she  went  down  the  post-office  steps,  the  bag 
of  Penrith  mail  in  her  hand.  She  lingered  a  moment  on 
the  middle  step,  debating  in  which  direction  to  turn  herself, 
how  to  spend  the  penny  which  was  at  that  moment  her 
undisputed  fortune.  It  was  the  daily  compensation  for  her 
daily  trip  to  Joppa  village.  Whether  to  save  it,  as  Aunt 
Serena  advised,  allowing  it  to  be  a  nest-egg  for  the  muni- 
ficent accumulation  that  would  follow,  or  prodigally  to 
spend  it  for  her  selected  choice  out  of  the  tempting  array 
of  penny  confectionery  that  could  be  glimpsed  through 
Uncle  Jupiter's  glass  cases.  Or,  should  she  add  it  to  her  Sun- 
day-school penny,  earning  thereby  a  further  portion  of  much 
needed  grace?  While  she  was  debating  these  important 
matters,  the  hoary-faced  dog  rubbed  his  nose  against  her 
hand.  Rue,  looking  down,  saw  the  suppliant  stranger. 
He  was  new  to  Joppa.  The  other  dogs  did  not  take  to  him 
kindly.  They  had  formed  a  cabal  outside  Mr.  Dewsnap's 
meatshop  where  they  discussed  him  contemptuously,  point- 
ing out  his  slothful  habit  of  body  and  hesitant  carriage. 
His  deprecatory  advances  to  that  halcyon  portico  were 


THE  CONFIDANT  169 

firmly  rejected.  So  he  lingered  about  the  post-office  steps, 
seeking  recognition  from  human  kind.  He  was  a  timid, 
shambling  creature,  the  sort  that  never  pursues  a  direct 
policy,  that,  on  the  first  note  of  dissent,  quickly  retreats 
from  any  given  position.  He  was,  in  short,  foredoomed 
to  business  failure.  His  legs  were  wide  apart,  his  tail 
wagged  uncertainly,  he  had  hoary  cheeks,  large  mongrel 
ears  and  a  pair  of  melancholy  beautiful  eyes.  Rue  liked 
him  at  once,  perceiving  only  his  sympathetic  gaze.  Con- 
scious of  her  approval,  he  joined  himself  to  her  and  trotted 
off  by  her  side.  Each  was  flattered  by  the  good-will  of  the 
other.  On  their  way  down  the  long  shadeless  road  that  led 
to  the  sequestered  lane,  Sulky  passed  them  in  his  cart  at 
a  brisk  gallop.  Sulky  drove  Grandfather's  horse  Augus- 
tus, now  demeaned  to  lowly  duties  in  the  possession  of  Mr. 
Dewsnap,  the  butcher.  On  the  seat  beside  Sulky  stood 
Sancho  the  terrier,  his  tail  stiff  and  waving  like  a  baton. 
By  this  signal  and  his  cheerful  bark  he  proclaimed  himself 
master  of  the  road.  The  hoary-faced  dog  had  learned  from 
much  tribulation  that  a  passive  demeanor  averts  active 
trouble.  Therefore,  he  made  no  answer  to  Sancho's  flam- 
boyant insults  nor  did  he  respond  when  Sancho  threat- 
ened to  jump  from  the  wagon  and  annihilate  him.  No, 
the  hoary-faced  dog,  pressing  more  closely  to  Rue's  side, 
kept  on  his  humble  way. 

When  they  reached  the  first  shade,  that  of  the  spreading 
chestnut- tree,  Rue  sat  down  for  her  accustomed  rest.  In 
the  Mexican  woven  bag  were  the  six  lamb-chops,  a  box 
of  gelatine  and  her  handkerchief.  Between  the  creases  of 
her  little  palm  was  the  warm  unspent  penny.  The  dog 


170  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

lay  beside  her,  fully  in  sympathy  with  this  siesta.  He 
stretched  his  paws  across  her  feet  and  laid  his  head  thereon 
with  a  touching  confidence. 

"Oh,  you  dear  doggie,"  cried  Rue.  "I  will  buy  you  a 
collar  with  this  penny,  so  I  will,  and  you  shall  be  my  doggie 
forever  after." 

The  dog  wagged  his  tail  in  tacit  assent  as  Rue  tied  up  the 
penny  in  a  corner  of  her  handkerchief.  But  neither  of  them 
had  counted  on  Aunt  Serena  and  her  inveterate  disapproval 
of  dogs. 

"  I  shall  name  you  Pharaoh  because  you  are  so  old  and 
black.  Pharaoh,  listen!" 

The  hoary  face  looked  up  and  was  all  attention.  Docility 
was  a  small  return  to  make  for  the  unmeasured  affection 
now  lavished  upon  him.  Yet  he  kept  himself  strictly  in  hand, 
knowing  full  well  the  bitterness  of  sudden  reverses. 

Rue  poured  out  into  Pharaoh's  capacious  ear  the  thrill- 
ing story  of  the  passage  perilous,  the  unknown  country 
into  which  she  had  penetrated,  the  brook,  the  princely  boy, 
the  vivacious  dog,  and  the  sad,  sad  parting.  Never  before 
had  the  child  commanded  so  faithful  an  audience.  No 
purrs  of  assent  at  the  wrong  places  and  no  moving  away 
just  before  the  climax.  The  deep  eyes  welled  over  with 
tears  when  she  related  how  Lillo  vanished  forever.  The 
paws  beat  an  intelligent  tatoo  as  she  recounted  the  num- 
ber of  trout  they  had  eaten.  When  she  pondered  upon  the 
origin  of  the  tasseled  boy.  Pharaoh  wrinkled  his  forehead 
thoughtfully. 

"  Perhaps  it  was  all  a  dream  of  mine, "  said  Rue.  "  When 
I  first  saw  the  Valley  I  thought  I  had  seen  it  before,  like 


THE  CONFIDANT  171 

dreams  you  have  dreamed  a  great  many  times.  But  it  was 
an  Enchanted  Ground,  that  an  Enchanter  makes  by  mov- 
ing his  wand. " 

Pharaoh  cocked  up  an  ear  tentatively,  as  much  as  to 
say: 

"  Ah,  so-so,  one  cannot  be  sure  of  anything  in  this 
world. " 

"I  think  I  will  try  to  find  it  again  some  time.  Then  I 
will  know  if  it  is  real. " 

The  hoary-faced  dog,  with  a  long  murmur  of  approval, 
stretched  himself  till  he  lengthened  like  a  piece  of  stout, 
black  elastic.  The  little  girl  gazed  at  him  in  wonder. 

"  How  long  you  can  make  yourself, "  she  exclaimed 
admiringly.  "Perhaps  if  a  person  yawned  a  great  many 
times  a  day,  he  could  grow  to  be  as  long  as  a  python.  That 
must  be  how  snakes  grew  to  be  so  long.  They  were  some 
short  cramped  animal  to  begin  with,  like  a  round  snail  or  a 
cricket,  and  they  were  so  tired  of  it,  they  just  yawned  all 
the  time.  Come,  Pharaoh,  we  must  be  hastening.  Ellen 
will  be  wanting  the  chops  for  luncheon,  and  perhaps  there 
is  an  important  document  here  for  Grandfather. " 

They  left  the  high-road  at  the  chestnut-tree  and  took 
the  grassy  lane  along  which  were  the  signs  "  No  Tres- 
passers. "  Pharaoh  investigated  the  prohibitory  placards 
with  peculiar  interest,  smelling  the  trails  of  other  four- 
footed  things.  As  Rue  approached  Penrith  House,  her 
bearing  became  more  thoughtful,  her  step  less  buoyant. 
She  was  not  sure  of  the  reception  awaiting  the  hoary- 
cheeked  stranger.  It  was  contrariwise  with  him.  Ignorant 
of  the  future,  his  manner  was  undergoing  a  rapid  trans- 


172  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

formation  from  the  beseeching  submission  of  the  post- 
office  steps  to  the  careless  ease  of  the  chestnut-tree,  and 
now  along  the  lane,  far  from  the  jibes  of  arrogant  terriers, 
his  demeanor  waxed  frisky  and  almost  foolish.  If  Rue 
had  at  one  time  forecast  that  Pharaoh's  humility  would 
touch  Aunt  Serena's  heart,  that  forecast  was  ill-judged. 
Humility  was  a  thing  of  the  past.  As  she  descended  the 
orchard  path  and  with  her  Mexican  bag  arrived  at  the 
back  door,  Pharaoh,  scenting  dinner,  let  out  a  full-mouthed 
howl  that  brought  Aunt  Serena,  Ellen  and  Justine  sim- 
ultaneously to  the  door.  There  was  nothing  for  it  now  but 
to  carry  the  situation  with  dash  and  confidence. 

"  Look  what  a  splendid  dog  I  have  brought  you ! "  said 
Rue.  " Down,  Pharaoh,  down." 

"The  divil,  it's  an  outrageous  bosthoon  he  is.  See  the 
face  of  the  baste,  if  you  plaze,  "  said  Ellen  coarsely. 

As  Rue  handed  out  the  letters  the  little  parcel  of  chops 
fell  to  the  area  steps.  With  one  short  yelp  of  gratitude  the 
hoary  dog  seized  the  gift  and  retired  to  the  lilac-bush  for 
leisurely  mastication. 

"The  horrid  dog,"  exclaimed  Aunt  Serena.  "Where 
did  you  pick  up  such  a  disgusting  creature,  Rue  ?  " 

"He's  not  a  creature.  He's  a  lovely,  kind  doggie," 
pleaded  Rue.  "He  is  so  intelligent  and  he  likes  me  very 
much. " 

No  flicker  of  relenting  crossed  Aunt  Serena's  hazel  eyes. 

"Please  let  me  keep  him.  He  can  sleep  in  the  barn. 
You'd  like  to  have  a  dear  doggie  to  play  with,  wouldn't 
you,  Justine?" 

Justine  at  this  crisis  nobly  came  to  the  rescue. 


THE  CONFIDANT  173 

"  Ess,  I  ike  that  dear  ittly  doggie.  " 

"He  is  a  wretched  cur,"  said  Aunt  Serena  with  real 
personal  contempt.  Pharaoh  was  licking  his  jaws  under 
the  bush  and  soon,  waxed  insolent  from  good  cheer,  ap- 
proached his  patroness.  He  wagged  his  tail  for  the  next 
course. 

"Go  away.  Oo  wreckie  curl,"  cried  Justine,  whose 
plastic  nature  inclined  her  to  agreement  with  the  last 
speaker.  Thus  it  was  that  Rue  lost  her  sole  supporter  and 
Pharaoh  an  important  ally.  It  was  decided  during  lunch- 
eon that  the  "cur"  must  be  disposed  of,  but  in  what 
manner  was  difficult  to  decide.  He  already  felt  himself 
firmly  ensconced  as  a  family  favorite  and  lolled  luxuriously 
across  the  piazza  steps.  He  moved  not  for  passers-by  but 
with  languid  good-humor  allowed  himself  to  be  stepped 
over  by  those  who  were  bold  enough  to  use  the  ordinary 
method  of  ingress  and  egress.  Ellen  was  shy  of  him,  ap- 
proaching him  only  at  broom's  length.  Justine  wavered 
between  righteous  denunciation  when  Aunt  Serena  was 
within  hearing  and  patronizing  caresses  when  under 
Rue's  influence. 

All  that  afternoon  the  two  children  and  the  dog  played 
together  about  Penrith  House.  The  dog  lent  himself  to 
many  roles,  was  dragon  to  the  Hesperides,  the  black 
knight's  horse,  the  buffalo  of  the  western  plains  or  Pluto's 
many-headed  monster,  with  equal  facility  and  in  rapid 
alternation.  It  was  a  red-letter  day  in  Pharaoh's  checkered 
career.  But  his  hours  were  numbered.  Between  Aunt 
Serena  and  Mr.  Boscoway  was  a  dark  scheme  devised. 
When  the  next  day  dawned  Pharaoh's  form  no  longer  lay 


174  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

luxuriously  across  the  piazza  steps.  Nor  did  he  lurk  be- 
neath the  lilac-bush,  nor  did  he  answer  at  all  to  Rue's 
repeated  summons.  So  firm  a  hold  had  the  dog  taken  on 
the  child's  affections  it  seemed  to  her  that  half  her  life 
was  gone.  Pharaoh  had  been  exterminated,  and  with  him 
had  vanished  the  glory  and  the  dream. 


XVIII 


IT  gradually  became  evident  to  the  discerning  Rue 
that  something  momentous  was  to  happen.  Grand- 
father was  going  away  and  it  was  necessary  that  he 
should  visit  the  Pisgah  National  Bank  to  draw  money.  It 
was  Rue's  joyous  lot  to  be  elected  as  Grandfather's 
companion  for  the  long  drive. 

She  was  despatched  to  the  village  in  the  morning  to  in- 
form Mr.  Dewsnap  of  the  drive,  that  Augustus  might  be 
impressed  into  the  service  of  his  distinguished  master. 

"  You  will  kindly  convoy  Augustus  up  to  the  house  this 
afternoon  at  the  sharp  hour  of  three,"  said  Rue,  all  breath- 
less, but  not  forgetting  Grandfather's  exact  phraseology. 
"  Grandfather  and  I  are  going  to  do  some  important 
business,  he  says,  and  you  will  please  give  Augustus  a 
nice  drink  of  water  before  he  starts,  won't  you,  Mr. 
Dewsnap  ? " 

This  last  was  an  independent  suggestion.  Rue  had  a 
fathomless  compassion  for  horses,  if  there  were  the  least 
suspicion  of  ill-usage  and  also  if  there  were  no  ground  for 
such  suspicion.  Supposing  they  were  fat,  well-groomed, 
bright-eyed  and  leniently  driven,  she  divined  them,  because 
speechless,  to  be  suffering  the  pangs  of  inward  thirst. 
On  the  way  home  from  the  village  Rue  had  time  to  dwell 

175 


176  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

in  fond  imagination  on  the  afternoon's  pleasure.  It  had 
been  so  long  since  she  had  ridden  to  Pisgah  that  she  had 
almost  forgotten  the  way.  It  is  agreeable  to  ride  abroad 
and  not  know  where  the  roads  take  you.  The  only  trouble 
is  they  never  take  you  over  the  edge.  There  are  certain 
hills  that  stand  up  against  the  sky  and  certain  places  where 
the  road  iurns,  and  beyond  these  the  world  must  look 
different  but  you  never  get  there. 

When  Grandfather  takes  you  driving  with  him  and  by 
some  great  stroke  of  fortune  you  reach  the  turn  in  the 
road,  lo,  you  find  that  the  road  continues  in  the  same 
manner  as  before  and  far  away  is  another  turn  beyond 
which  you  cannot  see. 

There  is  another  place  you  would  like  very  much  to 
visit  and  that  is  Across  the  River.  From  your  side  of  the 
river  you  may  see  the  other  side  very  plainly,  the  green, 
rippling  meadows,  the  little  doll-houses,  the  big  butternut- 
trees,  like  painted  trees  in  the  afternoon  light,  the  shadow 
of  a  cloud  traveling  slowly  across  the  broad  marshes, 
you  may  even  see  the  grass  change  color  and  shift  this  way 
and  that  like  ribbons  in  the  wind.  The  grass  will  sweep 
along  like  billows  of  the  sea,  but  it  never  crashes  up  on  any 
shore,  and  when  the  wind  stops,  you  can  see  each  clump 
and  ledge  of  grass  standing  still  in  its  place. 

Sometimes  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  you  can  hear  a 
boy  calling  his  cows  half  way  up  the  Twin  Mountains. 
You  never  know  the  syllables  of  his  call,  but  it  is  long, 
melodious,  dream-like.  For  all  this,  you  may  never  get 
Across  the  River. 

There  had  been  times  when  Justine  was  tucked  in  be- 


A  DRIVE  WITH  GRANDFATHER          177 

tween  Grandfather  and  Rue  and  was  allowed  to  put  a 
beatific  hand  on  the  lines.  Augustus  trotted  tenderly  then, 
amusement  in  the  long  curve  of  his  pleasant  mouth. 

"  Get  up  wight  on,  Augustus, "  she  would  entreatingly 
say. 

And  the  horse  would  prick  up  his  ears  with  kindly 
cynicism.  He  almost  forgot  to  whinny  a  dry  response  to 
his  friend  at  pasture  who  came  caracoling  to  the  wayside 
bars  with  what  was  evidently  some  flashy  bit  of  raillery 
in  his  whinny.  Augustus  was  excellent  at  repartee  and  got 
the  best  of  him,  for  the  caracoling  horse  was  silenced  and 
Augustus  snorted  triumphantly  as  he  twisted  around  the 
curve,  so  that  Justine  felt  the  spray  on  her  cheek  and 
thought  it  was  going  to  rain. 

However,  the  drives  when  Justine  was  not  tucked  in 
were  to  Rue  most  richly  profitable. 

They  drove  at  a  modest  pace  through  the  village,  over 
the  bridge  that  is  bordered  by  box-elder  trees  so  that  you 
hardly  know  it  is  a  bridge,  and  soon  were  in  the  shadow 
of  the  Twin  Mountains.  Then  Grandfather  sang  a  cour- 
teous whoa  to  the  horse,  and  made  Rue  look  out  of  the 
buggy  while  he  designated  various  objects  for  her  edifica- 
tion or  amusement.  Augustus  intelligently  turned  his  head 
to  follow  each  gesture  of  the  whip. 

"That  peculiar  cloud  formation  which  you  see  yonder 
is  called  cirrus. " 

Rue  repeated  the  word  several  times  and  learned  how 
to  spell  it.  Such  details  were  the  price  of  having  a  drive 
with  Grandfather. 

"  Also  observe  the  geologic  structure  of  the  hills,  prob- 


178  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

ably  a  glacial  moraine  at  one  time,  when  all  this  valley 
was  a  vast  inland  sea  and  the  tops  of  the  Twin  Mountains 
the  shore  on  which  stalked  the  prehistoric  man. " 

Grandfather's  scientific  theories  were  not  the  latest  ones, 
but  they  served  the  purpose  and  set  one  a-thinking. 
He  often  forgot  that  Rue  was  only  seven  years  old,  but 
if  he  had  remembered  he  would  have  considered  that 
age  none  too  tender  for  stalwart  acquisition  of  learning. 
He  himself,  according  to  tradition,  read  the  Greek  Testa- 
ment for  recreation  at  the  age  of  eight.  Rue  was  too  far 
removed  from  the  leveling  influence  of  relatives  and  play- 
mates to  stand  up  for  her  privileges  as  an  infant.  She 
acquired  her  alphabet  long  before  she  was  three,  was  a 
primer  student  spelling  out  anecdotes  of  Tom  and  Jim, 
the  cat  and  the  dog,  at  the  age  of  four,  and  on  her  fifth 
birthday  graduated  entirely  from  the  ignominy  of  Readers. 
Since  that  epoch  she  had  been  a  miscellaneous  browser 
in  literary  fields,  extracting  what  succulence  she  could 
from  the  dry  bill  of  fare  of  an  old-school  library.  Every 
desert  has  its  oasis.  There  were  few  books  that  did  not 
afford  a  nibble  or  two,  even  that  ponderous  row  of  Volumes 
known  to  Justine's  unabashed  vocabulary  as  "  The  Sacklo  !- 
Peter"  yielded  its  harvest  out  of  stony  soil. 

All  this  about  vast  inland  seas  and  a  prehistoric  man  who 
stalked  was  worthy  of  Rue's  attention. 

"Where  was  the  village  then,  Grandfather?  Did  the 
steeples  stick  up  out  of  the  sea  like  fish-tails  ?  We  should 
have  had  to  be  mer-people  if  we  had  lived  in  Joppa  then, 
shouldn't  we,  Grandfather?" 

This  was  what  he  denominated  "  prattle, "  although  to 


A  DRIVE  WITH  GRANDFATHER          179 

Rue  it  was  no  more  fantastic  than  Grandfather's  own  con- 
versation. Sometimes  he  answered  indulgently,  sometimes 
endured  in  silence.  At  other  times  he  frowned  and  regarded 
her  in  a  helpless  manner,  as  one  regards  a  tormenting  gnat. 

"  It  is  more  than  probable  that  at  the  epoch  we  have  been 
discussing  Joppa  was  non-existent,"  answered  Grand- 
father, this  time  in  a  ponderously  playful  mood. 

"What  was  Loami  Larrabee  doing  all  that  time? 
Wasn't  he  lonely  till  the  rest  of  Joppa  came  ?  " 

Loami  Larrabee  and  the  prehistoric  man  were  to  Rue 
coevals.  There  are  certain  personages  whose  age  is  so 
great  as  to  be  beyond  reckoning.  Of  such  "Teacher"  is  one, 
because  to  the  insect  generations  of  infant  classes  she  has 
neither  beginning  of  days  nor  end  of  life.  She  wielded  the 
stately  pointer  and  held  the  secrets  of  the  mystic  Marking- 
Book  in  time  out  of  mind,  when  your  elder  sisters  and  elder 
brothers,  who  now  flourish  as  the  bay-tree  in  put-up  hair 
or  long  trousers,  were  as  you  are,  kilted  or  in  the  bondage 
of  hair  ribbons.  "Teacher"  may  have  raven  locks  and 
walk  alertly.  It  makes  no  difference.  Such  things  are  even 
the  esoteric  symbols  of  her  endless  years.  Another  dateless 
personage  is  Loami  Larrabee  who  passes  the  collection 
plate  and  upon  the  bald  dome  of  whose  head  the  flies, 
like  Alpine  tourists,  make  precarious  excursions.  He,  too, 
is  not  governed  by  stringencies  of  birth  or  death.  Rue 
could  count  back  vast  eons  of  time  till  she  recalled  when 
she  sat  on  Aunt  Serena's  lap  in  church  and  demanded 
sugary  bribes  to  decorum  from  the  depths  of  Aunt  Serena's 
striped  silk  bag  and  even  then  Loami  Larrabee  was  hoary 
and  pink  and  wrinkled  and  wore  a  toothless  smile.  Now 


180  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Rue  is  old  enough  to  hold  the  horse  Augustus  as  she  did 
this  afternoon  while  Grandfather  got  out  to  make  pur- 
chases in  the  General  Store  and  Loami  Larrabee,  emerg- 
ing with  purchases,  is  still  hoary  and  pink  and  wrinkled, 
and  smiles  a  toothless  smile. 

"  You  are  getting  to  be  a  little  wumman,  hey, "  he  cackled, 
jealous  of  Rue's  advancing  years. 

She  did  not  know  what  answer  to  make,  so  she  nodded 
her  head  and  gripped  the  reins  more  firmly.  It  was  indeed  a 
responsibility  to  hold  Augustus,  not  that  he  ever  ran  away 
or  had  ever  shown  any  signs  of  wanting  to  run  away, 
but  the  potentiality  of  the  situation  was  tremendous.  He 
sometimes  manifested  a  yearning  for  the  green  lawn  just  be- 
yond his  reach,  between  which  and  Augustus  hard-hearted 
Grandfather  had  purposely  left  a  prohibitory  distance. 
When  Augustus  began  to  crane  the  neck,  or  to  take  a  sly 
step  forward  (merely  to  ease  his  posture,  poor  beast!), 
Rue  roared  majestically  "  Ho,  Augustus,  ho, "  and  all  the 
main  street  of  Joppa  admired  her  decision  of  character. 
Augustus  twisted  his  neck  to  look  at  her,  an  expression  of 
injured  surprise  in  his  mild  right  eye.  The  other  eye  still 
retained  a  gleam  of  Egyptian  desire. 

On  this  memorable  afternoon  there  were  romantic 
episodes  along  the  way  when  other  travelers  were  met 
or  passed  and  saluted.  Grandfather  had  a  salute  for 
every  one,  from  the  stately  black-robed  gentleman  with 
a  black  bag  in  a  black  buggy  drawn  by  a  black  horse 
—  to  the  humbler  wayfarer  on  foot,  with  a  dusty  fringe 
of  whiskers  and  a  dusty  pack  upon  his  shoulder.  To 
the  latter  Grandfather  called  out,  (modulating  Augus- 


A  DRIVE  WITH  GRANDFATHER          181 

tus  to  a  walk)  "  Good -morrow,  neighbor,  how  goes 
it?" 

The  dusty-fringed  man  showed  an  astounding  radiance 
of  smile  and  responded : 

"  Pretty  foine,  sorr,  the  same  to  you,  sorr, "  in  such  a 
hearty  tone  that  Rue  burst  with  gratitude  as  they  pro- 
ceeded. 

"What  a  pleasant  gentleman  he  was,  Grandfather. 
But  he  had  very  dirty  shoes.  He  will  have  to  black  them 
when  he  gets  home.  What  do  you  suppose  he  had  in  that 
bag  on  his  back,  Grandfather?" 

"Probably  his  personal  impedimenta,"  said  Grand- 
father, "  with  such  increment  as  alms  of  the  day  or  felici- 
tous accident  to  the  hen-coops  might  provide. " 

He  was  evidently  a  person  of  consideration  to  be  spoken 
of  in  such  good  language. 

"Who  was  he,  Grandfather?" 

"A  Knight  of  the  Road,  corresponding  in  our  modern 
day  to  the  troubador  or  minstrel  of  old  romance. " 

When  it  pleased  his  fancy,  Grandfather  was  very 
humorous.  These  resounding  phrases  echoed  long  in  Rue's 
imagination.  Still,  with  each  traveler  met  or  passed, 
would  the  little  girl  hopefully  inquire: 

"  What  was  that  one's  name,  Grandfather  ?  " 

A  person  who  had  lived  so  long  in  the  world  as  Grand- 
father and  who  was  so  very  learned,  should  be  able  to  read 
people's  name  in  their  faces,  as  iconographers  perceive 
dynasty  and  age  upon  the  faces  of  ancient  coins. 

"Jonathan  Jones,"  he  generally  replied,  which,  besides 
being  a  joke,  meant  three  things. 


182  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

1.  Jonathan  Jones  was  not  the  man's  real  name. 

2.  Grandfather  did  not  know  his  real  name. 

3.  It  was  foolish  of  Rue  to  want  to  know  what  his  real 
name  was. 

At  the  watering-trough  an  incident  occurred  more 
memorable  than  any  of  the  others  on  that  memorable 
drive  to  Pisgah.  Augustus  was  an  epicure  as  to  water, 
finding  as  many  grades  of  difference  in  the  wayside  re- 
freshment offered  to  horses  as  the  finished  gourmand  does 
who  smacks  his  lips  critically  before  committing  himself 
to  this  or  that  vintage  of  Chateau  Yquem  or  Latour 
Blanche.  At  the  Pisgah  trough  Augustus,  no  matter  how 
thirsty,  turned  his  head  the  other  way,  not  even  recognizing 
its  presence.  At  the  Twin  Mountains  school-house  Augus- 
tus stared  disdainfully  and  trotted  by  a  little  faster. 
Augustus  did  not  like  to  appear  unreasonable,  so  at  the 
long  watering-trough  he  condescended  to  notice,  and 
would  even  sip  a  few  sips.  A  very  few  sufficed.  The  re- 
quired something  that  your  true  connoisseur  can  hardly 
describe  was  lacking.  The  circular  trough  on  the  long 
three-mile  stretch  above  the  valley  left  nothing  to  be 
desired.  At  a  mile's  distance  from  it  his  laggard  pace  would 
quicken.  As  he  approached  nearer,  you  would  have  thought 
the  Gate  of  Equine  Heaven  gleamed  before  his  vision.  With 
buoyant  mane  and  cheerful  tail,  his  whole  body  vibrant  with 
glorious  anticipation,  the  road  vanished  beneath  his  twink- 
ling feet.  Of  his  own  accord  he  made  the  wide  outward 
sweep  necessary,  then  flourished  up  to  the  rim  and  dipped 
his  head  to  the  mead-bowl.  There  was  no  check-rein  to  be 
loosened,  for  Grandfather  did  not  approve  of  check-reins. 


A  DRIVE  WITH  GRANDFATHER          183 

Even  at  this  delicious  juncture  Augustus  proved  himself 
no  glutton.  He  carefully  sought  the  very  center  of  the  circu- 
lar trough,  where  the  water  gushed  up  from  underneath  of 
an  unimpaired  flavor  and  sparkle.  He  immersed  his 
epicurean  nose  in  its  freshness  and  let  the  water  slowly 
drip  through  his  teeth.  To  gulp  down  the  draught  in  huge 
noisy  thirst  —  not  he.  Augustus  was  a  virtuoso  in  watering- 
troughs  and  Grandfather  respected  his  virtuosity.  Every  one 
in  Joppa  respected  Augustus,  except  Sulky,  Mr.  Dew- 
snap's  boy,  an  imported  laborer,  out  of  sympathy  with 
Joppa  habits. 

However,  it  was  the  virtuosity  of  Augustus  that  nipped 
in  the  bud  what  might  have  been  a  far  more  eventful 
episode  for  Rue  and  for  some  one  else.  While  Augustus 
was  measuring  for  the  center  of  the  circular  watering- 
trough,  wheels  came  up  behind.  Grandfather  had  heard 
them  for  some  time.  They  were  rapid,  dissolute  wheels, 
of  them  that  drave  recklessly,  unregarding  stony  places 
and  steep  descents.  Rue  looked  round.  She  saw  an  open 
trap  of  citified  sort,  two-wheeled,  blond-complexioned,  and 
jaunty.  In  it  sat  a  lady,  a  billowy,  dark-haired  lady,  and 
—  Lillo.  Lillo  was  snow  white  as  to  raiment  and  his  hair 
clothed  his  face  like  one  of  Carpaccio's  angels.  He  himself 
in  consequence  looked  not  so  blithe  as  on  the  day  of  the 
Fairy  Valley.  A  frightened  flash  of  recognition  passed 
between  the  children  but  no  word  escaped  their  lips. 
Children  do  not  betray  themselves  in  the  presence  of  their 
elders.  The  lady  took  up  the  whip,  impatient  to  proceed. 
Augustus  continued  his  irritating  and  intolerable  dalliance. 
The  lady  said  the  fatal  forward  word  and  again  the  trap 


184  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

sped  on  its  dissolute  way.  Rue  craned  her  neck  around  the 
side  bars.  Lillo  beckoned  from  behind  his  mother's  float- 
ing streamers.  The  imperious  curl  of  his  finger  spelt  allure- 
ment, mastery,  "Follow  Me."  His  face  crinkled  into  one 
comprehensive  smile.  Rue  waved  her  little  hand  despair- 
ingly as  the  equipage  disappeared  around  the  turn  in  the 
road. 

"I  should  think  Augustus  would  burst  with  drinking 
forever,"  she  exclaimed  gloomily. 

Grandfather  drove  on. 

"Why  were  you  waving  your  hand  ?"  he  asked.  He  was 
a  very  noticing  gentleman,  at  times  unexpectedly  so. 

"I  was  cooling  my  fingers,"  answered  Rue  with  the 
full-fledged  subtlety  of  innocent  childhood.  "Thev  do  get 
so  warm  sitting  folded  up  in  my  lap." 

"Did  you  know  the  little  lad's  name?"  questioned 
he  astutely. 

"Jonathan  Jones,",  replied  Rue  solemnly,  which  joke 
of  his  own  so  melted  Grandfather  that  he  was  satisfied  to 
probe  no  deeper. 

As  they  approached  Joppa  again,  on  the  return  journey, 
he  began  to  sing  in  a  deep  voice :  "  Where  are  the  friends 
that  to  me  were  so  de-ear  — " 

The  words  were  broken  and  melted  into  each  other  and 
repeated  themselves  in  a  mournful,  mysterious  manner  — 
and  Grandfather's  mellow  chanting  of 

"Long,  long  ago,  long  long  ago"  was  the  very  longest- 
ago  sound  of  any  she  had  ever  heard  in  her  whole  life. 

Then  they  came  out  into  the  open,  with  the  broad 
marshes  on  their  right  and  the  Twin  Mountains  behind 


A  DRIVE  WITH  GRANDFATHER          185 

them  and  the  sun  in  a  rosy  mist  behind  the  Shining  Hill. 
Grandfather  recollected  himself  and  said  briskly : 

'Augustus,  it  is  high  time  we  should  be  moving."  He 
encouraged  Augustus  with  improvised  recitative,  deliv- 
ered in  the  loud  voice  Supposed  to  be  necessary  for  horses. 
Horses  being  of  larger  size  need  to  be  addressed  in  larger 
voices.  What  a  huge  voice  elephant  keepers  must  cultivate. 
The  favorite  improvisation  ran  as  follows: 

Augustus,  speed  thee  on  thy  way, 

And  haste  thee  home  to  get. 
The  sun  sends  down  a  parting  ray, 

And  here  we  linger  yet. 

This  afternoon  Rue  also  was  inspired  to  improvisation 
for  the  benefit  of  Augustus. 

Augustus,  get  right  along,  please, 

Like  a  nice  little,  good  little  horse 
Shake  your  mane  all  you  want  to  bid  don't 
stumble  on  your  knees, 

(  Unduly  long,  perhaps,  this  line,  but  trip  over  it  rapidly.) 
For  it's  almost  supper-time,  of  course. 

This  was  not  as  mellifluous  nor  as  classic  as  Grand- 
father's prosody,  but  it  seemed  to  suit  Augustus  equally 
well.  By  the  time  the  village  steeple  was  in  sight  he  was 
trotting  so  briskly  that  he  had  to  be  restrained  by  Grand- 
father' prudent  hand.  It  was  remarkable  how  Augus- 
tus's imagination  was  quickened  by  the  sight  of  the  white 
steeple.  By  the  vision  of  Mr.  Larrabee's  cedar  hedge  and 
two  guinea-fowls,  he  was  urged  to  break  into  an  un- 
mistakable gallop. 


186  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Somehow  or  other,  the  Shining  Hill  was  not  in  the  same 
place  as  it  had  been  when  Grandfather  and  Rue  smarted. 

It  was  on  their  left  side  now,  Grandfather  patiently  ex- 
plained that  they  had  themselves  turned  about,  not  the  Hill. 

"  The  same  phenomenon,  on  a  gigantic  scale,  is  seen  in 
the  apparent  rotation  of  the  sun  around  this  planet." 

Rue  remembered  that  Aunt  Serena's  little  finger  had 
often  explained  this  phenomenon,  with  the  help  of  an 
apple  and  the  school-room  globe,  but  it  afterward  re- 
mained as  much  a  mystery  as  ever. 

"  When  did  we  turn  around,  Grandfather  ?  " 

"  The  roads  we  have  elected  since  leaving  Pisgah  have  all 
of  them  borne  gradually  to  the  west,  instead  of  to  the  east." 

Everything  seemed  topsy-turvy  and  mixed  up,  and 
people's  houses  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  road.  It  made 
Rue  a  little  unhappy  till  she  shut  her  eyes  hard  and  several 
times  forced  herself  to  turn  around  in  her  head,  then  when 
she  opened  her  eyes  she  was  again  in  harmony  with  the 
points  of  the  compass. 

The  last  grievance,  however,  was  when  Grandfather 
pointed  his  whip  across  the  sunset  river  and  said : 

"  Behold,  where  we  wended  our  way  a  few  hours  ago." 

She  looked.  She  saw  the  little  doll-houses,  the  shadow 
of  the  cloud  journeying,  the  billowy  marshes,  the  Beyond. 
"  Do  you  mean  that  we,  you,  and  7,  have  been  there,  Across 
the  River?"  asked  Rue,  with  a  pathetic  attempt  to  pin 
the  grandfatherly  mind  to  accuracy. 

"  Certainly,  at  the  time  when  I  pointed  out  to  you  the 
cirrus  clouds,  we  were  Across  the  River  from  here." 

"I  remember  the  serious  clouds,"  said  Rue  sternly, 


A  DRIVE  WITH  GRANDFATHER          187 

"  but  you  told  rne  then  to  look  Across  the  River,  to  observe 
how  serious  they  were,  and  if  we  were  Across  the  River  — " 

Rue  felt  the  inadequacy  of  words  to  express  the  subtlety 
of  her  argument.  She  stopped  short,  only  to  begin  again 
plaintively. 

"  I  had  always  wanted  to  get  Across  the  River  and  you 
never  told  me  we  were  there." 

At  this  point,  Augustus,  with  a  fine  flourish  of  his  tail, 
rounded  the  corner  into  the  grassy  lane  and  Aunt  Serena 
and  Justine  were  walking  sedately  to  meet  them,  Justine 
clamoring  as  to  what  presents  they  had  brought  her  from 
abroad. 

It  is  an  established  code  that  the  principal  function 
of  Olympians  who  journey  abroad  is  to  return  laden  with 
gifts  for  the  little  Stay-at-Homes.  In  that  delectable  Un- 
known to  which  Olympians  go,  the  trees  bear  such  fruit 
as  square  lumps  of  sugar,  little  purses,  and  bags  of  hoar- 
hound  candy. 

Grandfather  remarked  that  evening  to  Aunt  Serena 
between  the  interstices  of  graver  talk,  that  the  child  Rue 
had  a  singularly  circuitous  intelligence. 

The  etymology  of  "  circuitous  "  must  be  a  compound  of 
serpents  with  cuteness,  producing  an  intensive  form  of 
sly.  Was  Grandfather  alluding  to  the  episode  of  Lillo  at 
the  circular  watering-trough  ?  It  was  true,  she  had  been 
a  little  deceitful  with  good,  kind  Grandfather.  But  the 
stake  was  so  perilous  and  the  odds  so  heavy. 

Where  was  Lillo  now  and  where  the  billow}'  lady  ?  Per- 
haps on  the  road  to  Vallombrosa,  and  Rue  not  with  them. 

Oh,  cruel  fate!  Oh,  greedy,  tiresome  Augustus! 


XIX 

BOOTS  AND  BUNTING 

THE   Pharaoh   episode  had   closed,  to    the  great 
joy  of  Aunt  Serena.   Little  did  she  foresee  the 
far-reaching  results  of  his  premature  disappear- 
ance. The  immediate  consequence  of  the  extermination 
of  Pharaoh  was  the  mysterious  incarnation  of  his  suc- 
cessors, Boots  and  Bunting.  The  remote  and  more  impor- 
tant result  was  the  discovery  of  the  Singing  Lady  in  the 
deserted  garden. 

It  happened  as  follows: 

Said  Rue  to  Aunt  Serena  (pleadingly):  "Aunt  Serena, 
where  is  my  dear  little  Pharaoh  ?  " 

Aunt  Serena  (coldly):  "I  do  not  know  to  what  you 
refer." 

Rue  (impatiently.  She  took  liberties  of  impatience 
with  Aunt  Serena  that  were  never  dreamed  of  with  Grand- 
father.) "You  know  I  mean  my  dog.  My  dog  Pharaoh." 

Aunt  Serena  (scornfully):  "Oh,  that  disgusting  creature! 
Do  not  mention  him  to  me  again. " 

Rue  (whiningly):  "I  want  to  know  what  you  have 
done  with  him.  Please  tell  me,  Aunt  Serena,  please, 
please. " 

Aunt  Serena  (imperturbably) :  "  Go  away.  I  am  busy, 
child." 

188 


BOOTS  AND  BUNTING  189 

Aunt  Serena,  with  the  naphtha  bottle,  was  hunting  after 
faint  spots  in  Rue's  Sunday  dress. 

Rue  (naughtily):  "You  are  not  too  busy  to  talk.  You 
are  just  trying  to  find  spots  that  no  one,  not  even  an  eagle, 
could  possibly  notice.  Perhaps  you  have  done  something 
cruel  and  ruthless  to  my  dear  — " 

Aunt  Serena  (sternly):  "Come,  we  will  go  to  your 
Grandfather  and  tell  him  how  you  talk. " 

Rue  (repentingly) :  "I  am  sorry  I  said  that.  I  don't 
want  to  tell  Grandfather  how  I  talk.  " 

Aunt  Serena  (triumphantly) :  "  Then  run  away  at  once 
and  don't  let  me  hear  you  mention  that  creature  again. " 

Rue,  smothering  a  sob  at  this  insulting  epithet,  fled  to 
Grandfather's  chamber  to  gain  what  comfort  she  could 
from  the  mahogany  sofa  and  the  clothes-closet.  Grand- 
father's every-day  trousers  hung  in  the  closet.  The  dear 
and  friendly  clothes,  a  little  frayed  at  the  bottom  and  a 
little  shiny  at  the  knees,  were  full  of  human  warmth 
and  kindliness.  They  brought  back  memories  of  piazza 
naps,  of  garden  weedings  when  Rue  had  followed  after 
with  her  little  trowel,  of  hours  with  the  ax  when  she  had 
sat  near  by  and  been  regaled  with  anecdotes,  of  hours 
with  "Homer"  and  the  "Faerie  Queene,"  when  she  had  sat 
on  his  knees.  Rue  shed  a  few  tears  and  hugged  each  limp, 
silent  leg. 

Then,  to  solace  herself  still  further,  she  bounced  up  and 
down  on  the  horsehair  sofa.  A  wonderful  thing  happened. 
The  sofa  spoke. 

"  Boots  and  Bunting, "  it  grunted. 

That  was  all;  just  those  two  names,  Boots  and  Bunting. 


190  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

The  little  girl  fled  outdoors  for  further  reflection  upon 
this  phenomenon.  The  seclusion  of  the  lane  shed  light  upon 
the  problem. 

How  charming  the  lane  was  that  June  morning.  It  was  a 
famous  place  for  wild  strawberries,  and  the  scent  of  them 
was  on  the  air,  for  Mr.  Boscoway  had  recently  mowed  a 
wide  way  and  the  little  berries  were  upturned  with  the  hay, 
dry  and  sweet  in  the  sun.  There  were  slim  fellows  with 
necks  and  fat  fellows,  firm-cheeked,  and  occasional  rosy 
giants  that  lorded  it  over  the  pygmy  tribes.  These  were 
eaten  by  themselves  for  a  last  mouthful.  There  were 
sprays  and  clusters,  too,  so  delicately  scented  and  lux- 
uriantly burdened  that  it  seemed  inhuman  to  devour 
them.  Rue  fashioned  little  strawberry  bouquets  and  put 
them  in  a  tiny  medicine-glass  on  her  bureau.  She  had  to 
be  very  adroit  to  save  them  from  Justine's  sacrilegious 
appetite.  Justine  was  both  simple  and  sly  and,  to  escape 
detection,  would  take  minute  nibbles  from  each  berry. 
This  habit  she  must  have  inherited  from  her  remote  an- 
cestors the  birds  or  the  mice,  who  have  similiar  wasteful 
mannerisms,  and  instead  of  boldly  annihilating  a  whole 
cherry  or  cracker  will  secretively  nibble  around  the  edges 
of  a  dozen. 

A  stone  wall  bordered  the  lane  on  both  sides,  defining  it 
as  a  lane.  Otherwise,  it  would  not  have  been  recognizable 
as  such,  so  few  were  the  feet  that  traveled  Penrith  way  and 
so  intrusive  and  roystering  the  vegetation  that  scrambled 
over  the  stone  walls  from  the  neighboring  meadows.  In 
August  the  clematis  blew  out  into  fragant  clouds.  The 
woodbine  crept  like  prairie  fire  in  frosty  weather.  Now,  in 


BOOTS  AND  BUNTING  191 

the  month  of  June,  the  wild  roses  flecked  with  pinkness 
the  gray  stones  and  thousands  of  daisies  like  white-capped 
children  laughed  and  nodded  just  beyond  the  reach  of  Mr. 
Boscoway's  scythe.  Rue  prepared  a  repast  for  the  birds 
upon  her  dining-room-table  stone,  and  then,  retiring  to  a 
discreet  distance,  watched  developments.  Now  that 
Grandfather  was  absorbed  in  momentous  plans,  lessons 
did  not  proceed  quite  so  vigorously  as  was  their  ancient 
custom.  She  had  already  accomplished,  though  with 
startling  results,  eight  arithmetic  examples  and  had  recited 
fluently,  to  Ellen's  perfect  satisfaction,  a  new  Latin  de- 
clension. She  had  the  "Faerie  Queene"  with  her  in  the  lane 
and  was  to  memorize  two  stanzas  before  luncheon.  But 
Boots  and  Bunting  interfered. 

Long  before  she  saw  them,  Rue  heard  their  eloquent 
voices  echoing  down  the  lane.  It  might,  indeed,  be  question- 
ed by  the  skeptical  if  she  ever  saw  them  except  with  that 
inward  eye  which  is  the  boon  of  solitude. 

"I  hear  them,  they  are  coming,"  she  whispered  to 
herself,  sitting  on  her  throne  in  a  niche  of  the  stone  wall, 
"Boots  and  Bunting." 

But  even  then  she  did  not  know  what  bodily  form  Boots 
and  Bunting  would  assume.  The  names  were  outlandish, 
having  come  from  the  depths  of  the  mahogany  sofa. 
The  heavenly  vision  was  not  to  be  denied. 

It  flashed  upon  her  that  they  were  two  Newfoundland 
puppies,  black-nosed,  white-legged  and  shaggy-eared, 
They  were  galloping  creatures,  enormous,  high-spirited, 
and  very  young.  There  is  no  living  being  that  can  rival, 
for  exceeding  youth,  the  youthfulness  of  a  Newfoundland 


192  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

puppy.  Such  a  commotion  as  there  was  in  the  quiet  lane 
that  June  morning.  An  outsider  would  have  perceived  no 
one  but  a  very  small  girl,  pink-aproned,  who,  consider- 
ing her  solitary  state,  careened  and  shouted  in  an  unusual 

manner. 

"  Hip,  hip,  hurrah.  Hi,  Boots,  hey,  Bunting. " 

They  raced  and  they  rolled  and  they  tumbled.  How 
could  Rue  help  her  frouzled  hair,  her  stained  pinafore,  her 
peeled  shoes,  with  two  such  uproarious  puppies  to  restrain. 
Boots  and  Bunting  were  the  culprits. 

In  the  two  days  that  followed  Aunt  Serena  was  powerless 
against  those  visionary  invaders.  Better,  a  hundred  times, 
six  live  Pharaohs  than  those  two  elusive  puppies.  Here  was 
a  case  when  neither  Ellen's  broom  nor  Mr.  Boscoway's 
dark  counsel  would  avail.  Chicken  bones  were  diverted 
from  the  soup  kettle,  and  porridge  bowls  remained  un- 
touched. Out  of  doors  the  sward  was  dotted  with  these 
shrines,  where  oblation  was  offered  to  the  canine  divinity. 
The  dogs  were  omnipresent.  Before  breakfast  they  bayed 
in  the  upper  regions.  They  were  blanketed  and  kissed  at 
nightfall.  They  occupied  the  rug  before  the  fireplace  and 
guarded  the  thresholds.  They  lay  in  Aunt  Serena's  best 
chairs  and  even  that  lady  herself  was  ousted  at  their  con- 
venience. 

"You  are  sitting  on  Boots,  Aunt  Serena,"  wailed  Rue, 
"Please,  please  get  up." 

Calmly  did  Aunt  Serena  knit  on  and  on.  But  when 
Justine  added  her  weeping  entreaties  to  those  of  Rue, 
Aunt  Serena  yielded  and  arose.  Two  anguished  little  girls 
bathed  in  tears  were  more  than  the  sphinx  could  resist. 


BOOTS  AND  BUNTING  193 

The  sat-upon  Boots  was  released  and  despatched  out- 
doors by  grateful  Rue,  before  further  calamity  overtook 
him.  It  followed,  however,  upon  this  incident  that  Boots 
and  Bunting  were  forbidden  the  house.  The  edict  had  its 
hopeful  side,  for  though  of  an  inhospitable  nature  it 
recognized  their  existence.  Similar  results  are  achieved  in 
international  diplomacy  when  rebellious  states,  by  the  per- 
sistence of  their  revolt,  are  recognized  as  negotiable  powers. 

They  became  visualized  even  to  Justine.  She  stood  in 
the  safety  of  the  blind  door,  watching  Rue  race  with  them 
or  they  with  each  other,  and  such  was  her  acumen  that  she 
could  decide  with  whom  the  victory  lay. 

"There,  Justine,  who  beat  that  time,  Boots  or  Bunt- 
ing ?  Good  Bunting,  good  dog." 

"  Bunty  beat  'at  time.  Good  dod." 

And,  "May  I  p'ay  with  oo  doddies,  Rue?" 

How  angelic  was  Justine's  voice  when  she  pleaded  for  a 
favor.  Oh,  but  the  dogs  were  a  wonderful  fulcrum,  by 
which  the  world  could  be  turned.  They  became  righteous 
administrators  of  Rue's  justice  as  well  as  heavenly  reward- 
ing spirits.  For  one  whole  day  Justine  was  pliable  as  wax 
in  Rue's  hands.  If  Boots  and  Bunting  were  forbidden  to 
play  with  Justine,  they  were  obedient.  Lonely  and  pariah, 
Justine  sat  with  folded  hands  while  Rue  disported  herself 
with  the  glorious  pups. 

"Aunt  Serena,  get  me  some  doddies  'ike  Boots  and 
Bunting." 

"  You  ridiculous  dear,  they  are  not  real  dogs.  Can't  you 
see  there  are  no  dogs  on  our  lawn?" 

But  behold  Rue,  seated  on  invisible  dog-back,  a  pair  of 


194  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

reins  in  her  hands,  whoaing  and  get-apping  herself  in  the 
realistic  manner  that  admits  no  doubt!  Little  Justine 
hovered  for  several  days  in  that  uncomfortable  country 
between  belief  and  skepticism. 

"Dey  are  no  doddies,"  she  announced  fiercely,  settling 
herself  on  her  white  rocking-horse  with  an  obstinate  air  of 
conviction. 

"How  did  I  know  their  names,  then?"  quizzed  Rue, 
triumphantly. 

"  Dey  are  no  real  names."  Justine  rocked  herself  more 
violently  under  the  enfeebling  influence  of  Rue's  spirited 
rejoinder. 

"Grandfather,  aren't  Boots  and  Bunting  real  names, 
please,  Grandfather?" 

Grandfather  emerged  from  behind  a  maze  of  purple- 
type  "documents."  He  turned  a  vague  glance  upon  the 
small  golden  face  at  his  elbow. 

"  Real  words  ?  I  believe  the  dictionary  will  corroborate 
that  view  of  the  case.  Do  not  disturb  me  again." 

He  tipped  downward  over  his  eyes  the  awesome  canvas 
eye-shade  and  muttered,  "See  addenda." 

"  The  dictionary  colobates  my  view,"  Rue  reported  with 
hasty  dignity.  "I  will  tell  you  why,  Justine.  Boots  has 
black  feet  with  white  legs  so  it  looks  like  white  stockings 
and  boots  pulled  on." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know  'at,"  said  Justine.  "  Does  'e  dickie- 
sherry  say  'at  ?  " 

But  the  time  came  when,  like  Frankenstein,  Boots  and 
Bunting  passed  beyond  the  power  of  their  mistress  and 
creator.  They  developed  unruly  and  renegade  traits.  With 


BOOTS  AND  BUNTING  195 

a  cruel  rod  Rue  beat  the  empty  air  while  Justine  howled 
in  sympathy.  They  were  not  wholly  to  blame  for  their 
runaway  habits,  considering  the  contumely  heaped  upon 
them  at  Penrith  House.  Ellen  (from  the  area)  had  threat- 
ened them  with  a  broom  and  with  rich  epithets.  Aunt 
Serena  had  stepped  on  their  tails  in  the  front  walk.  Mr. 
Boscoway  had  spaded  up  their  pet  bones  from  the  radish 
bed.  Also,  Justine  had  received  a  real  kitten,  to  compensate 
her  for  Rue's  lordship  over  the  unattainable  pups.  Their 
power  was  on  the  wane,  but  as  proof  of  their  convincing  per- 
sonality it  needs  only  to  be  set  down  that  the  kitten  arched 
her  back  and  spat  when  Rue  called  up  Boots  and  Bunting 
to  drink  from  the  kitten's  saucer.  It  was  more  than  ever 
difficult  for  Rue  to  maintain  their  privileges,  and  Boots 
and  Bunting  resented  the  outrages  put  upon  them.  They 
made  up  their  minds  to  escape,  to  run  away,  to  leave  be- 
hind them  forever  the  unsympathetic  dust  of  Penrith 
House.  It  was  just  after  luncheon  one  cool  shining  day, 
when  the  clouds  raced  and  the  trees  swayed  and  glittered 
in  the  occasional  rifts  of  clean  sunshine.  Rue  and  Justine 
were  picking  raspberries  by  the  stile  and  the  pups  lay 
contentedly  in  the  warmth  of  a  favorite  corner.  Contentedly 
to  all  outward  appearance,  but  within,  nourishing  mutiny. 
Rue  went  to  the  house  to  deposit  her  little  pail  of  berries, 
and  on  her  return  she  observed  that  the  dogs  no  longer 
lay  in  their  grassy  nest.  Full  speed,  they  were  galloping 
down  the  lane.  Full  speed,  galloped  Rue  after  them, 
commanding,  imploring  their  return.  Justine,  in  great 
excitement,  clasping  to  her  breast  the  meek  kitten,  followed 
as  far  as  the  first  wild  rose-bush. 


196  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  Come  back,  sir.  Come  back,  sir,"  she  called,  imitating 
Rue's  imperious  or  impassioned  tones. 

Not  more  desperately  nor  more  yearningly  did  Lord 
Ullin  lament  across  the  "  waters  wild,"  than  did  Rue  that 
scudding  blue  and  gray  afternoon.  Justine  turned  to  the 
meek  kitten  who  hung,  head  downward,  beneath  her  arm. 

"Dose  naughty  sirs  have  runned  away,"  she  sadly  in- 
formed her  minion,  at  which  the  minion  secretly  rejoiced. 


XX 
THE  BURNING  BUSH 

RUE  was  obliged  to  follow  the  renegade  dogs  far 
out  of  sight  of  Penrith  House.  They  evaded  her 
till  finally  even  the  sound  of  their  eloquent 
voices  died  away  in  the  distance.  Never  from  that  day  to 
this  has  she  seen  Boots  and  Bunting.  But  if  it  had  not  been 
for  their  insolent  departure,  the  interesting  events  chronicled 
in  this  chapter  would  never  have  come  to  pass.  She  found 
herself  on  the  Cliffs- Where-Columbine-Hangs.  The  climb 
was  perilous,  beyond  the  limits  of  Justine's  endurance. 
Upon  these  well-nigh  inaccessible  precipices  Rue  had  been 
accustomed  to  do  much  skilful  mountaineering  and  to  bring 
home  as  guerdon  nosegays  of  nodding  flowers,  scarlet  and 
yellow,  each  with  four  honey-filled  saddle-bags.  The  flow- 
ers had  a  spirited  air  of  being  booted  and  spurred  and 
ready  for  the  tourney.  Incidentally,  they  were  del  ghtful  to 
the  taste,  and  Justine  was  sternly  forbidden  to  nibble. 

While  Rue  wandered  about  among  the  defiles  and  ledges, 
she  happened  to  glance  to  the  eastward  and  saw  below  her 
the  top  of  a  grove  of  trees  which  she  had  never  before  noticed. 
How  curiously  we  walk  blind  till  on  a  day,  no  different 
from  other  days,  our  eyes  open  to  an  object  that  may  have 
been  our  neighbor  for  years. 

Like  a  red  flame  in  the  heart  of  this  grove  was  a  bush, 

197 


198  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

a  burning  bush.  It  stood  out,  to  Rue's  excitable  imagina- 
tion, like  some  enchanted  signal.  Red-blossoming  bushes 
are  rare  in  northern  woods.  Rue  abandoned  the  Cliffs,  tore 
down  the  shady  slopes  of  Prospect  Hill,  flew  across  a  suc- 
cession of  fields  till  at  last  she  came  to  a  high  stone  wall. 
She  had  lost  sight  of  the  burning  bush,  but  behind  that 
wall  it  must  be.  The  wall  was  high  and  difficult  to  be  sur- 
mounted, while  on  the  other  side  was  a  disagreeable  hedge 
of  even  greater  height.  Rue  was  nothing  daunted.  With 
bleeding  hands,  a  torn  frock,  and  scaly  shoes,  she  found 
herself  at  last  in  the  grove  of  her  desire.  It  was  not  such 
a  thick  grove  as  it  had  seemed  from  further  away.  There 
were  trees  and  shrubs  that,  long  having  gone  untrimmed, 
dripped  Cimmerian  dark.  The  grass  was  matted  under 
their  tangled  branches.  The  ground  bloomed  with  starry 
white  flowers  and  there  were  brilliant  striped  grasses  run 
.wild  from  some  ornamental  bed.  The  place  impressed 
her  as  haunted,  enclosed  as  it  was  with  such  secrecy  and 
full  of  a  medley  of  vegetation.  There  was  a  mulberry- 
tree,  a  prim  little  rose  of  Sharon,  and  a  straggling  row  of 
currant-bushes,  up  to  their  ears  in  weeds.  The  garden  was 
shadowy  and  still.  Not  a  bird  sang.  Scarcely  a  sunbeam 
flickered,  though  outside  it  was  high  noon.  By  and  by  she 
came  upon  the  burning  bush.  It  was  a  Japanese  quince,  a 
shrub  she  had  never  before  seen.  But  she  stayed  her  hand 
from  plucking.  She  remembered  Proserpine,  how  the 
earth  opened  and  Pluto  came  up  when  the  maiden  pulled 
at  gorgeous  flowers.  Look,  here  was  the  ghost  of  a  path, 
like  a  pallid  seam,  parting  the  ribbon  grasses  and  leading 
somewhere  beyond.  What  a  little,  trembling  dream  of  a 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  199 

path,  to  be  sure.  How  glad  it  would  be  to  have  somebody's 
feet  following  it  again.  It  led  to  a  shaggy  open  space,  where 
once  must  have  been  a  lawn.  In  the  middle  of  the  open 
space  were  some  shattered  boards  that  covered  a  hole  in  the 
ground.  Rue  knelt  down  on  the  edge.  A  board  crumbled 
and  fell  in.  It  fell,  fell,  fell,  far,  far  down  and  finally 
made  a  splashing  noise  deep  in  the  ground.  Lying  full 
length  along  the  safe  uncrumbling  earth,  the  little  girl 
peered  over  the  margin  of  the  decaying  platform. 

The  hole  descended  to  measureless  depths.  Far  below 
at  the  bottom  was  the  black  glint  of  water.  Rue  realized 
that  she  had  discovered  the  site  of  a  well  once  furnished 
with  well-sweep,  bucket  or  pump  but  now  —  all  these 
necessary  human  adjuncts  obliterated  —  the  circular 
darkness  of  the  well  had  only  a  sinister  suggestion.  Near 
by  had  been  a  house,  perhaps,  and  human  hands  had 
drawn  water  from  these  depths.  Only  those  who  have 
excavated  for  the  remains  of  thrice-buried  cities  on  the 
ringing  plains  of  Windy  Troy,  or  by  the  hoary  hills  of 
Abydos,  can  conceive  the  solemn  thrill  that  this  discovery 
imparted  to  little  Rue  Penrith. 

Beyond  the  abandoned  well  were  other  curious  relics. 
There  were  deep  pits  in  the  ground,  surrounded  by  frag- 
ments of  walls.  Two  or  three  stone  steps  led  down.  They 
led  only  to  heaps  of  ashes.  Rue  stood  and  pondered.  A 
chilly  and  lonesome  feeling  struck  to  her  bones.  The 
yellow  stonecrop  that  grew  from  the  topmost  step  wore  a 
cruel  smile.  The  black  glint  of  the  treacherous  well,  the 
rotten  board  that  fell  with  a  horrible  splash,  the  waxen 
faces  of  the  star-flowers,  the  piles  of  ashes,  the  stairs  that 


£00  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

led  nowhere,  the  yellow  plant  that  tufted  itself  where  a 
carpet  once  had  lain,  where  doors  had  opened  in  and  out  — 
all  conspired  to  weave  a  sinister  spell. 

Here  had  once  been  a  house.  People  had  once  lived  here. 
They  had  picked  currants  from  the  bushes,  drawn  water 
from  the  well.  They  had  gone  up  and  down  those  broken 
stairs  and  walked  there  in  mid-air,  back  and  forth  where 
floors  no  longer  existed.  Yes,  probably  in  the  time  of  the 
Arabians  and  the  shepherds  that  the  Bible  tells  about,  this 
place  had  been  inhabited.  Rue  shivered  to  think  of  the 
thousands  of  years  that  had  perished  and  of  the  dead  and 
gone  shepherds  whose  spirits  seemed  to  haunt  their  ancient 
habitation.  It  was  like  that  Scripture  passage  which 
reverberated  vaguely  in  her  memory  from  the  sonorous 
caves  of  Grandfather's  rendering: 

"  It  shall  never  be  inhabited;  neither  shall  it  be  dwelt  in 
from  generation  to  generation;  neither  shall  the  Arabian 
pitch  tent  there;  neither  shall  the  shepherds  make  their 
fold  there.  But  wild  beasts  of  the  desert  shall  lie  there; 
and  their  houses  shall  be  full  of  doleful  creatures;  and 
owls  shall  dwell  there,  and  satyrs  shall  dance  there.  And 
the  wild  beasts  of  the  islands  shall  cry  in  their  desolate 
houses  and  dragons  in  their  pleasant  palaces. " 

Rue  had  stumbled  into  the  ill-fated  Kenyon  place,  upon 
which,  since  the  destruction  of  the  house  by  fire,  the 
wilderness  had  closed.  How  strangely  connected  had  the 
house  been  with  the  life  and  fortunes  of  Danae.  Young 
Peter  Kenyon  had  been  Danae's  first  sweetheart,  and  it 
was  not  so  long  ago  by  grown  folks'  reckoning,  a  matter  of 
twelve  years  at  the  most.  When  the  house  went  up  in  flames, 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  201 

after  old  Kenyon's  death,  people  said  the  fire  was  Peter's 
own  doing.  The  insurance  money  took  him  to  New  York 
and  afterward  to  Italy.  Young  Kenyon  had  never  borne  a 
good  name  in  Joppa.  He  was  not  of  Joppa's  kind,  and  the 
Joppanities  had  shaken  their  heads  over  pretty  Danae 
Penrith's  intimacy  with  the  shaggy  young  maker  of  idols. 
Justinian  had  been  too  fond  or  too  blind. 

Rue  returned  to  the  burning  bush,  which  with  its  lusty 
color  and  vigorous  contour  was  the  one  spot  of  cheer  in  the 
garden.  Its  beacon-flames  seemed  to  point  now  in  a  dif- 
ferent direction.  A  little  trail,  it  may  have  once  been  a  road, 
but  the  weeds  had  encroached  upon  its  wide  boundaries  — 
led  to  a  secluded  terrace,  a  miniature  affair  with  a  pair  of 
sunken  stone  steps,  guarded  on  each  side  by  a  shattered 
column.  On  the  top  of  the  terrace  was  an  enclosure  of 
shrubs,  that  had  the  look  of  encircling  an  inner  secret,  like 
the  final  involucre  of  a  labyrinth.  Rue  parted  the  thicket 
and  walked  within.  A  sun-dial  stood  there,  crumbling  and 
forced  into  fissures  by  the  toes  of  inquisitive  vines.  Two 
rough  images  knelt  at  the  sun-dial's  base,  a  girl  and  a  boy, 
whose  contrasted  sexes  still  showed  in  the  defaced  plaster. 
The  boy  reached  an  arm  out  for  the  girl  whose  naked  back 
was  turned  to  him.  With  his  other  arm  he  supported  him- 
self on  the  sun-dial's  base,  as  if  he  had  barely  sprung 
from  the  earth  and  still  half  grew  there.  But  the  girl  clasped 
with  one  hand  the  rim  of  the  plinth  and  with  the  other 
pointed  a  vague  finger  to  the  sun-dial's  face,  as  if  in  re- 
monstrance at  the  boy's  eager  pursuit. 

And  around  the  sun-dial  was  inscribed  a  legend. 

The  group  had  been  Peter  Kenyon's  boyish  chef-d'oeuvre 


202  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

and  Danae  had  posed  for  the  head  and  bare  shoulders  of 
the  unwilling  wood-child.  The  wood-child's  sculptured 
lids  were  steady  with  innocent  awe.  It  must  have  been  the 
graven  legend  that  so  awed  her.  Rue  knelt  and  looked 
upward.  She  surmised  that  this  was  the  altar  of  a  heathen 
deity  at  which  the  people  of  the  pleasant  palaces  had 
worshiped,  before  the  coming  of  the  doleful  creatures. 
Was  it  wicked  for  her  to  bow  down  before  the  heathen  stone  ? 

Still  kneeling,  she  vainly  tried  to  decipher  the  words 
of  the  inscription  when  a  wailing  sound  came  from  some^ 
where  in  the  garden.  It  was  a  wailing  and  yet  it  was  a  song, 
as  wild  and  plaintive  as  an  Irish  keen. 

"  Satyrs  shall  dance  there  and  owls  shall  dwell  there  and 
dragons  shall  cry  in  their  pleasant  palaces. " 

The  wailing  continued  and  crystallized  into  words,  which 
fell  off  like  shining  drops  from  a  streaming  branch.  The 
words  were  not  English  words  so  Rue  could  not  understand 
them.  That  wailing  fountain  of  song  was  the  soul  of  the  de- 
serted garden.  Rue  emerged  through  a  gap  in  the  thicket  and 
stood  still,  afinger  to  her  lip  in  great  perturbation  and  wonder. 
She  could  see  no  one,  but  there  was  a  faint  flutter  of  blue  be- 
hind the  Burning  Bush.  Then  the  song  ceased,  and  a  wom- 
an's voice  cried,  low  and  breathless,  but  perfectly  clear: 

"My  God!" 

A  lady  ran  out  from  the  Burning  Bush.  She  was  all  hi 
blue  and  was  crowned  with  a  coronet  of  corn-colored  hair. 
A  blue  muslin  hat  hung  over  one  shoulder.  Her  two  hands 
were  clasped  together  on  her  bosom  and  they  sparkled 
with  many-colored  stones.  She  was  neither  old  nor  young. 
She  had  a  laughing  crying  face.  She  approached  Rue  very 


THE  BURNING  BUSH  203 

slowly,  her  two  hands  still  clasped  across  her  bosom  as  if 
to  hold  her  heart  still.  Her  face  was  a  white  glow,  as  you 
have  seen  the  sky  just  before  moonrise  above  a  high  hill. 
Her  pale  blue  eyes  had  black  lashes,  too  heavy  and  too 
black  for  the  transparent  lids.  The  lady  spoke: 

"Child,  are  you  alive?" 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  think  so,"  replied  Rue  quakingly. 

"Not  a  dream-child,  a  dream-child,"  said  the  lady, 
coming  nearer  to  the  terrace. 

Rue  did  not  dare  to  move  or  speak  while  the  lady's  blue 
eyes  were  on  her.  When  the  lady  was  quite  close,  she  put 
out  a  hand  and  let  it  rest  on  Rue's  head,  then  on  her  cheek 
and  so  to  her  shoulder. 

"Good  God,how  you  tremble,poorlittlesoul, "said  the  lady. 

She  must  be  very  religious  to  pray  to  God  so  often. 

"  That  is  because  I  was  afraid  of  the  satyrs  when  I  heard 
you  sing." 

"Did  I  frighten  you ?  I  am  sorry." 

"  I  am  not  frightened  now.  I  did  not  know  it  was  you, 
Miss  —  Miss  Lady.  Are  you  a  shepherd  lady  or  are  you 
one  of  the  Doleful  Creatures  ?  " 

"  I  am  one  of  the  Doleful  Creatures,"  answered  the 
lady,  smiling  a  surprised  little  smile. 

"  Then  do  you  know  the  Satyr  or  the  Dragon  ?  I  would 
like  very  much  to  be  introduced,  if  they  are  not  too 
busy,"  said  Rue  politely. 

But  she  soon  saw  by  Miss  Lady's  cold  and  wondering 
expression  that  the  topic  of  these,  her  companions,  was  one 
to  be  avoided.  Rue  remained  silent,  twirling  a  red  quince- 
flower  round  and  round  in  her  hands; 


XXI 
MISS  LADY 

MISS  LADY  looked  long  and  earnestly  at  Rue. 
Then  both  sat  down  on  the  base  of  the  sun-dial 
which  Peter  Kenyon  had  made.  The  lady's 
skin  was  so  transparently  white  that  it  was  like  the  petal 
of  a  pale  spring  flower  through,  which  the  sun  shines. 
There  were  little  soft  shadows  around  her  eyes  like  pen- 
cilings  in  wild  white  violets.  Her  lips  drooped  as  if  she 
had  neither  the  strength  nor  desire  to  close  them.  Her 
wrists  and  her  temples  were  blue-veined,  and  looked  like 
fragile  porcelain  that  one  is  afraid  to  touch.  Everything 
about  her  seemed  frail  and  perishable  and  sad,  like  a  pot- 
grown  white  hyacinth  that  has  begun  to  wither.  Her  pret- 
tiness  hurt  one's  sensibilities. 

Rue  turned  to  trace  the  motto  on  the  sun-dial,  engraven 
there,  a  long  ago  spring  day,  by  Peter  Kenyon. 

The  words  began  to  stand  out. 

"  When  you  and  I  have  quitte,  my  deare, 

Time  still  —  " 

Here  the  graven  letters  were  obliterated  beyond  recog- 
nition. 

Miss  Lady  took  up  the  broken  line. 

"Time  still  shall  be  remembered  here." 

Then  she  quickly  turned  away  from  the  sun-dial  and 

204 


MISS  LADY  205 

stared   forward   into  the  garden,   her  face   like   marble. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  asked  Rue,  "Does  it  mean  a 

real  you  and  I,  like  you,  Miss  Lady,  and  me,  this  minute  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  she  dreamily,  "only  it  meant  some  other 

you  and  I  —  once.  Two  other  people,  once." 

"  Were  you  one  of  them  ?  " 
"Yes." 

"Where  is  the  other  one,  Miss  Lady?"  The  lady  did 
not  answer,  but  rocked  to-and-fro,  singing  a  little  to  herself . 

"  Are  you  the  lady  of  the  desolate  palaces  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Are  you  sad  and  white  because  it  is  all  ashes  and  there 
are  no  doors  to  go  through,  and  the  steps  have  no  ban- 
isters and  there  are  no  chambers  ?  " 

"What    steps,    little   girl?" 

"Those  steps  which  go  up  and  then  stop  right  in  the 
air,  as  if  they  thought  they  had  come  to  the  Guest-Chamber 
or  some  place  like  that." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Lady. 

Rue  knew  that  the  answer  meant  nothing,  for  the  lady 
had  not  been  following  Rue's  explanation. 

"  Will  you  sing  that  song  again  that  you  sang  when  you 
came  by  the  burning  bush  and  I  thought  you  were  a  satyr 
crying  ?  " 

Miss  Lady  sang  softly  some  Italian  words  like  this : 

"Padre,  tu,  piangi!  Padre,  ah,  padre  /"  and  then  after 
a  pause  another  fragment  which  ended  in  a  burst  of  tears. 

"  Ah,  bello  a  me  ritorna  die  fido  amor '  pnmrero." 

Rue  regarded  her  in  awe.  The  singer  suddenly  broke 
off  and  took  one  of  Rue's  little  brown  hands. 


206  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"You  have  such  eyes,  my  child.  Eyes  like  some  one  — 
I  knew  —  once,  long  ago."  Her  thin  wrist  throbbed  against 
Rue's  palm. 

The  child  shivered  at  this  allusion  to  the  past,  at  the 
likeness  between  her  and  one  of  those  dead-and-gone 
wandering  people,  from  whose  misty  ranks  this  blue 
creature  had  returned. 

"I  think  I  must  go  now,"  she  endeavored  to  be  polite 
and  yet  to  withdraw  her  hand.  She  longed  that  instant 
for  the  sun  and  the  open  road,  and  to  hear  her  own  voice 
shouting.  She  tried  to  remember  the  proper  formula  when 
one  petitions  a  favor. 

"  May  I  be  so  kind  as  to  ask  you  to  let  me  go  ?  " 

The  lady  did  not  relax  her  hold.  Rue  did  not  dare  to 
pull  hard  for  fear  of  breaking  the  lady's  wrist. 

"  Where  do  you  live,  little  one  ?  " 

"I  live  with  Grandfather." 

Miss  Lady  started. 

"Who  is  Grandfather?" 

"  Oh,  don't  you  know  Grandfather,  Miss  Lady  ? "  Rue 
spoke  gently  and  yet  was  amazed  at  the  narrow  limits  of 
this  lady's  education.  "  He  lives  in  the  lavender  house  with 
green  blinds." 

The  lady  cried  and  clapped  her  hands  to  her  temples. 
Rue  leaned  over  her  solicitously  and  pressed  her  two  little 
hands  above  the  lady's  own. 

"I  know  just  how  it  feels,"  she  murmured  tenderly. 
"  My  forehead  goes  that  way  when  I  try  to  remember  the 
rules  for  subtraction." 

Then  poor  Miss  Lady  began  to  cry.  The  tears  rained 


MISS  LADY  207 

down  her  white  cheeks  and  her  delicate  body,  beneath  its 
cloudy  raiment,  was  shaken  by  sobs. 

"  Trying  to  remember;  trying  to  remember, "  she  moaned. 
"  It's  not  only  that  —  It's  trying  to  forget,  trying  to  for- 
get." 

Rue  had  moved  away  from  her,  frightened  by  the  out- 
burst of  tears.  They  were  not  passionate  tears,  but  a  pitiful 
self-abandonment,  as  of  a  sick  and  feverish  child. 

"Please  don't  cry,  poor  Miss  Lady,"  sobbed  Rue.  "Is 
it  so  very  hard  to  forget  ?  Please,  please  don't  cry.  I'm 
afraid  you'll  break  in  two  Poor,  poor  little  Miss  Lady." 

The  lady  opened  wide  her  two  arms  to  Rue.  The  tears 
hung  heavy  on  her  black  lashes  and  her  eyes  were  like  mist. 

"  Come  here  to  me,  darling,  darling." 

"I  don't  want  to  come,"  sobbed  Rue.  "May  I  be  so 
very,  very  kind  as  not  to  come,  Miss  Lady  ?  I'm  afraid." 

The  lady  dropped  her  arms. 

"Try  to  forget,"  she  murmured  to  herself.  Then  aloud: 
"Are  you  afraid  of  me?"  Her  childish  mouth  quivered 
with  another  sob. 

"  I'm  a  little  bit  afraid  of  you,  because  —  I've  never 
seen  you  before,  Miss  Lady,  and  because  your  cheeks  are 
so  white  and  we!:." 

The  lady  dried  her  cheeks  with  a  handful  of  filmy  hand- 
kerchief she  drew  from  her  bosom. 

"Tell  me  a  little  about  your  grandfather,"  she  said 
brokenly.  "  Is  —  is  his  hair  streaked  with  gray  ?  " 

"It  is  all  white,"  said  Rue,  surprised  again  that  the 
lady  did  not  know. 

Miss  Lady  repressed  a  little  cry  in  her  throat. 


208  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  Does  he  ever  go  horseback  riding  with  —  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,  indeed,"  said  Rue  solemnly.  "He  walks  very 
slowly  and  when  he  goes  down  steps  he  feels  ahead  of  him 
with  his  cane." 

"Father,  Father,"  moaned  Miss  Lady. 

"  He  used  to  go  horseback  riding  a  long  time  ago  — 
when  Miss  Dainy  lived  with  us." 

"Miss  Dainy?"  choked  the  lady,  putting  out  a  hand 
to  bring  Rue  to  her.  But  Rue  edged  timidly  away.  "Did 
Grandfather  —  did  any  one  —  ever  tell  you  about  — "her  ?  " 

"  Only  Mr.  Boscoway  did." 

A  faint  smile  shone  through  the  lady's  misty  eyes.  "  Mr. 
Boscoway !  Does  he  still  — ' 

"  Do  you  know  Mr.  Boscoway  ?  " 

"  There  was  some  one  —  like  him  once  —  where  I  lived." 

"I  suppose,  perhaps,  every  one  has  a  Mr.  Boscoway," 
said  Rue,  "even  the  dead-and-gone  satyr  people.  He  is 
a  proud  and  a  good  man.  He  told  me  about  Miss  Dainy, 
who  had  hair  like  ropes  of  flax  and  used  to  sit  on  the  end 
of  a  log  as  it  might  be  yesterday.  I  think  I  would  know 
her  if  I  saw  her." 

"You  think  you  would  know  her  if  you  saw  her,"  re- 
peated the  lady  in  the  same  broken  voice. 

"She  would  look  a  little  like  you,"  said  Rue  gently, 
"  only  her  hair  hangs  down  and  she  is  young  and  beauti- 
ful." 

Miss  Lady  put  her  handkerchief  again  to  her  eyes,  and 
Rue  saw  that  tears  trickled  from  underneath. 

"Did  Grandfather  ever  tell  you  about  her?"  Rue  was 
silent  a  minute,  remembering  with  what  pain  Grand- 


MISS  LADY 

father  had  framed  his  lips  to  the  name,  and  how  she 
promised  never  to  say  the  name  to  him  again. 

"  Did  Grandfather  never  tell  you  about  —  about  —  his 
daughter?  Please  speak." 

Miss  Lady  was  kneeling  on  the  ground,  with  her  arms 
and  bosom  resting  against  the  cold  plaster  image. 

"He  said  he  had  no  daughter,"  answered  Rue. 

"  Oh,  Father,  Father,"  murmured  poor  Miss  Lady,  drop- 
ping her  golden  head  on  the  base  of  the  sun-dial. 

When  you  and  I  have  quitte,  my  deare, 
Time  still  shall  be  remembered  here. 

Rue  ran  to  her  and  knelt  by  her  side. 

"Have  you  a  father,  Miss  Lady?" 

"Father,  Father!"  sobbed  the  golden  head. 

"Is  he  buried  here?"  Rue  thought  what  crumbs  of 
comfort  she  could  offer. 

"  I  have  no  father  —  or  mother,"  she  murmured,  putting 
her  cheek  close  by  the  lady's.  "  But  Grandfather  says  — 
if  I  am  good  he  will  take  me  to  the  depths  of  a  great  town 
and  then  we  will  choose  a  mother." 

The  lavender  eyes  of  Miss  Lady  opened,  and  a  cruel 
look  of  age  came  into  them.  Her  lips  withered.  Rue  thought 
she  was  hurt  with  some  inward  sting. 

"Does  it  hurt  very  much?"  she  asked. 

"Everything  hurts,"  said  Miss  Lady.  "Look,  that's 
why  I'm  so  thin."  She  held  up  her  transparent  hands, 
"and  not  young  and  beautiful  like  Miss  Dainy.  Tell  me 
again "-  —  But  her  thoughts  seemed  to  wander. 

"What  shall  I  tell  you,  Miss  Lady?" 


210  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"Is  the  old  Persian  rug  in  the  dining-room?" 

"  Yes.  It  has  two  holes  in  front  of  the  fireplace  but  Aunt 
Serena  darned  them." 

"And  the  bluebird  wall-paper?" 

"Yes,  that  is  Justine's  room.  There  are  twenty-eight 
birds  on  the  piece  of  wall  behind  her  dressing-table." 

It  seemed  quite  natural  to  Rue  that  the  world  should 
know  of  the  rugs  and  the  wall-paper  in  Penrith  House. 
The  lady  was  smiling  and  crying  at  the  same  time.  There 
was  something  infinitely  tender  in  those  treasured  recol- 
lections of  common  things. 

"  Which  is  your  room  ?  "  asked  Miss  Lady,  with  a  quaver 
in  her  throat. 

"  I  have  the  West  Room.  I  like  to  sit  on  my  desk  and 
see  the  sun  set.  Sometimes  it  blows  out  through  the  trees 
like  a  large  red  bubble.  There  are  other  rooms  I  like.  And 
there  is  one  door  I  cannot  go  in." 

"What  door  is  that?" 

"It  is  the  Silent  Door.  No  one  ever  goes  in  or  comes 
out.  I  do  not  know  what  is  behind  it,  but  I  should  like  to 
know.  I  used  to  think  there  was  a  poor  lady  shut  in  there 
and  I  tried  to  comfort  her  through  the  keyhole." 

"Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!" 

"  Never  mind.  I  don't  think  there  is  any  lady  there.  But 
I  cannot  go  in  and  look.  Grandfather  will  not  let  me. 
Perhaps  he  would  open  the  door  for  you,  Miss  Lady." 

"Hush,  you  do  not  know.  Oh,  I  cannot  beax  to  hear 
you  tell  any  more." 

The  lady  arose,  put  on  her  hat,  and  wound  herself  in 
her  mists  of  chiffon. 


MISS  LADY  211 

"Are  you  going  away  now?" 

"Yes." 

"  Are  you  never  coming  back  here  any  more  ?  *' 

"No." 

"  Why  do  you  not  come  and  visit  us  ?  Grandfather  likes 
to  have  pretty  people  stay  at  our  house." 

"  I  am  not  pretty,  and  he  would  not  like  to  have  me  come." 

"  I  think  you  are  pretty  when  you  have  wound  the  misty 
stuff  around  your  face  so  that  your  crying  eyes  don't 
show." 

The  lady  floated  slowly  away  among  the  trees.  Rue 
thought  she  moved  as  if  she  were  going  to  some  punish- 
ment. Then  she  turned. 

"  Come  and  kiss  me  once,"  she  said  to  Rue. 

Rue  ran  to  her,  full  of  sympathy,  and  Miss  Lady  stooped 
down  and  Rue  kissed  her  through  the  veils  on  her  eyes. 
The  kiss  scorched  her  lips,  the  lady's  eyes  were  so  hot. 

"  Tell  your  grandfather  —  no.  Yes,  tell   him  that  Miss 

__  ?> 

"Grandfather  is  going  away,"  said  Rue.  "He  will  take 
the  cars  to  New  York.  He  will  carry  a  long  bag  with  him, 
and  he  will  eat  his  lunch  on  the  train." 

"That  long,  rusty  bag?"  asked  the  lady  eagerly.  Rue 
nodded. 

"His  cheeks  are  very  thin,"  said  Rue  thoughtfully. 
"And  sometimes  he  warms  his  hands  at  the  fire,  though 
it  is  sunny  weather." 

"  Does  he  really  care  ?  Do  you  think  he  really  cares  ?  " 

Of  course  Rue  did  not  understand.  She  was  used  to  not 
understanding  grown  people. 


THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"He  shut  the  door  after  me.  He  said,  'Go  then  and 
never  return.'  And  I  went  —  I  could  not  forgive  the  name 
he  called  me.  But  he  is  old  and  thin.  He  steps  slowly  and 
feels  with  his  cane.  I  have  done  that,  I.  But  he  said  he 
had  no  daughter,  no  daughter.  Little  child,  what  do  they 
call  you  ?  " 

"Rue." 

"What  else?" 

"Rue  Penrith.  It  is  because  of  the  meadow-rue  that 
blew  out  like  a  cloud.  I  am  almost  as  tall  as  the  plant  of 
rue.  When  I  am  just  the  same  tallness  I  am  going  to  have  a 
party.  It  is  not  exactly  a  birthday  party,  because  I  am 
different  from  other  little  girls  and  I  have  no  birthday." 

"  My  darling,  my  baby ! "  the  lady  said,  in  her  wander- 
ing-minded voice. 

"Would  you  like  to  come  to  my  party?" 

The  lady's  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Perhaps.  But  no!" 

"I  will  tell  Grandfather  I  saw  you.  What  shall  I  say  is 
your  name?" 

"I  have  lost  my  name,"  cried  the  lady  in  a  clear, 
singing  voice  that  was  full  of  grief  and  fear.  "  You  must 
not  tell  him.  You  must  not.  Promise  that  you  will  not." 

"  I  do  not  know  your  name,  Miss  Lady,  so  I  could  not 
tell  him." 

"Do  not  tell  him  anything.  Do  not  tell  that  you  saw 
me.  Promise!" 

The  lady  rose  up  tall  and  slender  like  a  blue  lily.  She 
lifted  her  misty  veil.  Her  black-fringed  eyes  were  pale 
blue  and  full  of  clear  lights. 


MISS  LADY  213 

"Yes,  I  promise,  Miss  Lady." 

"  You  do.  Dear  little  one.  I  want  to  see  you  again.  Will 
you  come  and  see  me?" 

"Where  do  you  live?" 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  tell  you  that.  I  must  not  ask  you  to  come 
to  me.  Perhaps  I  will  come  to  your  party." 

"I  will  send  you  an  invitation,  Miss  Lady,  if  Aunt 
Serena  and  Grandfather  will  let  me.  Can  you  find  the  way 
to  our  house?" 

"  Yes,  Rue,  I  can  find  the  way." 

The  lady  looked  at  the  sun-dial,  pushing  her  veils  above 
her  eyes.  The  black-encrusted  letters  showed  plainly. 

When  you  and  I  have  quitte,  my  deare, 
Time  still  shall  be  remembered  here. 

Then  Miss  Lady  went  away.  Rue,  taking  a  different 
direction,  hurried  out  to  the  breeze  and  sun.  Not  until  she 
was  well  down  the  road  below  Prospect  Hill  did  a  sweep 
of  recollection  surge  over  her.  She  seemed  to  have  lived 
long  ago,  ages  ago,  and  the  memory  had  just  returned  to 
her  of  the  earlier  experience.  The  laughing  crying  lady, 
the  eyes  like  Quaker-ladies  in  the  spring,  the  blue  gown, 
the  hair  light-colored  like  dandelions.  Yes,  she  had  seen 
her  before,  once  before,  long,  long  ago.  The  small  hands 
that  moved  when  she  talked.  Lillo  in  the  Fairy  Valley! 
Angela,  his  Angela  of  the  Red  Bungalow!  Miss  Lady 
was  Angela.  It  began  to  be  clear.  If  she  could  find  Lillo 
again  in  the  Fairy  Valley,  or  if  she  could  find  the  Red 
Bungalow,  the  great  mystery  might  be  solved. 


XXII 
THE  CONSTANTINOPLE  CLOAK 

MIRACLES  may  happen  even  in  this  day.  To  go 
off  hunting  for  columbine  among  mountain 
defiles  and  to  see  below  you  an  enchanted 
demesne  and  a  Burning  Bush,  to  penetrate  that  demesne 
and  discover  it  to  be  the  garden  of  desolate  palaces;  to 
find  a  heathen  altar  of  graven  stone  and  to  hear  a  satyr 
crying;  afterwards  to  behold  the  vision  of  a  pretty  lady 
floating  like  a  mist  between  the  trees ;  to  hear  her  laughing 
crying  voice  and  to  feel  her  shadow  hand  upon  your  hair: 
all  this  is  strange  enough  and  sacredly  secret,  never  to  be 
divulged.  For  certain  experiences  bred  of  solitariness  lose 
virtue  in  the  rehearsal  and  you  might  even  be  induced  to 
believe  they  had  never  happened  if  they  were  exposed  to 
the  garish  light  of  older  people's  curiosity. 

But,  to  return  to  one's  proper  domicile,  to  johnny-cake 
and  to  Dutch  cheese  for  luncheon,  to  return  with  that 
forbidden  look  of  mystery  upon  your  countenance,  which 
always  invites  the  elderly  person  to  delve  and  investigate  — 
to  return  a  little  late  for  luncheon  and  to  meet  with  no 
inquisition  as  to  the  disposal  of  your  morning,  but  to  be 
hailed  with  transport  as  one  upon  whom  the  mantle 
of  greatness  is  about  to  descend,  to  learn  that  through 
some  inscrutable  decree  of  providence  you  are  to  make  a 

214 


THE  CONSTANTINOPLE  CLOAK          215 

journey  with  Grandfather, —  this  is,  indeed,  little  short  of 
a  miracle. 

There  is  at  once  a  subtle  distance  placed  between  you 
and  Ellen  and  Justine.  Aunt  Serena  treats  you  almost  as 
an  equal  and  does  not  chide  you  for  removing  first  the 
soft  inside  of  your  johnny-cake  and  reserving  that  supreme 
delicacy,  the  flaky  undercrust,  as  a  farewell  morsel.  A 
decade  has  been  at  one  stride  added  to  your  age,  and  with 
becoming  dignity  you  rise  to  the  great  situation. 

Soon  you  will  be  clad  from  top  to  toe  in  choice  raiment 
from  Aunt  Serena's  bottom  drawer  where  your  Sunday 
clothes  are  kept,  soon  you  will  mount  the  steps  of  the  two- 
coach  train  at  the  Joppa  station,  where  the  farmers  in 
their  milk-wagons  gather,  and  Sulky  and  the  miller's  boy 
await  their  crates  and  bags  from  Canaan's  industrial 
center.  The  village  interests  will  sink  into  obscurity  before 
your  historic  departure  and  before  the  respectful  flourish 
with  which  the  conductor  will  hand  you  into  the  train. 

Soon  the  Pendragon  will  belch  and  roar  with  the  travail 
of  getting  under  way,  as  certain  ancient  gentlemen  hitch 
and  groan  with  the  travail  of  arising  by  degrees  from  a 
comfortable  easy-chair.  You  will  be  whisked  off  across 
whirling  miles  into  an  unknown  world. 

This  is  the  miracle  that  happened.  But  first,  there  was 
Rue's  wardrobe  to  be  discussed  —  a  weighty  subject, 
lending  itself  to  many  differences  of  opinion  between  Aunt 
Serena  and  Grandfather.  It  is  a  fallacy  to  suppose  that 
elderly  and  literary  gentlemen  are  callous  to  the  question 
of  clothes.  Justinian  Penrith  could  unbend  from  Wel- 
hausen  or  Delitzsch  to  pronounce  on  the  blend  of  a  debated 


216  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

button  with  a  bodice.  The  simplicity  of  Aunt  Serena's 
bodices  being  relieved  chiefly  by  the  buttons  which  formed 
a  sedate  row  down  the  front,  there  was  importance  attached 
to  the  color  of  the  same  as  well  as  to  the  interval  between. 
Justinian's  ideas,  unbiased  by  knowledge  of  fashions  past 
or  present,  had,  as  he  explained  to  Aunt  Serena  and  to 
Miss  Alvira,  the  dressmaker  from  the  village,  "  all  the 
greater  virtuosity."  Indeed,  there  would  be  few  in  Joppa 
village  to  dispute  Dr.  Penrith's  "virtuosity." 

Fashions  may  fluctuate  elsewhere.  They  reach  Joppa 
when  they  are  already  on  the  wane,  and  there  they  find 
rest  for  the  soles  of  their  feet.  In  that  sympathetic  spot 
their  existence  is  prolonged  far  beyond  its  natural  term. 
To  the  debilitated  or  dying  mode,  Joppa  is  recommended 
as  a  health  resort  of  the  highest  recuperative  power.  But 
when  fashion  ends  its  respected  life  and  is  seen  no  longer, 
either  at  Loami  Larrabee's  or  the  Widow  Gideon's,  then 
does  it  fly  to  Penrith  House  there  to  flourish  for  a  term  of 
years  unreckoned. 

With  an  elderly  man's  vague  idea  of  woman's  needs  Jus- 
tinian regarded  the  purchase  of  a  girl's  clothing  as  a 
gardener  might  consider  his  investment  in  perennial  bulbs, 
a  fund  which,  once  invested,  would  blossom  out  each 
spring  into  unimpaired  beauty.  A  bonnet  for  the  child, 
another  for  the  girl,  a  third  for  the  budding  woman.  Was 
that  not  ample  provision  against  the  horse  leech's  milliner- 
daughters  ? 

In  Joppa  one  need  not  consult  the  changing  style.  A 
black  satin  dress  or  an  ostrich-trimmed  hat  becomes  an 
institution.  The  passing  generations  rise  up  and  succeed 


THE  CONSTANTINOPLE  CLOAK         217 

each  other  and  ephemeral  is  their  day,  but  not  so  with  the 
black  satin  and  the  ostrich  plumes.  The  gleam  of  the  one 
in  the  Larrabee  Sunday  carriage  and  the  nod  of  the  other 
in  the  Gideon  pew  serve  to  remind  us  that  life  is  not  wholly 
unstable.  Year  by  year,  decade  after  decade,  are  certain 
goodly  garments  donned  and  doffed  in  Joppa,  by  which 
one  may  note  the  passage  of  the  seasons  and  the  occurrence 
of  such  feast-days  as  are  celebrated  on  the  Jerusalem 
river;  to  wit,  cousin  parties,  donations,  church  centennials, 
baptisms,  and  Fourths  of  July. 

A  house-owner  may  repaint  his  house.  Notable  is  the 
event,  long  deliberated  upon,  thoroughly  discussed, 
vigorously  criticized,  you  may  be  sure,  by  each  occupant 
of  the  long  file  of  country  vehicles  that  wend  their  way 
sedately  to  and  from  the  church  sheds.  A  personage  much 
in  the  public  eye  is  he  who  gives  his  house  a  fresh  coat  of 
paint,  more  especially  in  a  novel  hue  —  in  Joppa  village. 

Elder  Trimble's  wife  was  young  and  had  been  to  Hebe 
College.  It  was  doubtless  due  to  her  influence  that  the 
parsonage  was  painted  dark  red,  with  olive-green  blinds, 
ungodly  colors  and  a  heterodox  combination. 

"She  is  young  and  has  yet  to  learn,"  said  the  more 
liberal  of  the  congregation.  While  those  who  would  fain 
forget  discreetly  lowered  their  eyelids  when  they  passed 
the  worldly  fa9ade  of  that  encrimsoned  house. 

But  if  he  who  essays  a  new  coat  for  his  house  exposes 
himself  to  public  blame  or  praise,  how  much  fiercer  the 
light  that  beats  upon  the  individual  who  reclothes  his 
person!  In  the  first  place,  one  must  justify  one's  self  to  the 
village  conscience-at-large  which  remembers  perfectly  the 


218  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

time  when  that  old  great-coat  was  bought,  and  added 
years  have  only  brought  added  luster  to  its  respectability, 
not  to  say  its  seams.  Justinian  was  partial  to  peach-color 
and  to  sky-blue.  A  peach-colored  delaine  and  a  sky-blue 
bonnet  with  strings  he  had  promised  that  Rue  should 
have  between  the  ages  of  sixteen  and  twenty.  She  should 
have  learned  by  that  time  to  be  less  reckless  with  her  little 
frocks.  It  was  not  likely  that  she  would  play  she  was  a 
glacier  and  slide  down  grassy  terraces  between  the  ages 
of  sixteen  and  twenty, 

Such  slippery  excursions,  though  exciting  and  of  a 
geological  bent,  leave  behind  them  upon  muslin  under- 
garments emerald  records  of  which  Aunt  Serena  does  not 
approve. 

Mr.  Bastable's  proposition,  the  strange  appointment 
with  one  Frederick  Droll,  the  matter  of  money  in  both 
cases,  brought  home  to  Dr.  Penrith  his  own  limitations. 
For  Danae  he  had  spent  freely  and  she  herself  had  spent 
freely,  and  had  flung  defiance  in  his  face  and  gone  from 
his  life  forever.  Then  Rue  came,  and  on  her  he  had  nothing 
to  bestow.  Dr.  Penrith  knew  too  well  the  restriction  and 
suffering  that  poverty  would  entail  in  the  life  of  a  young 
and  spirited  girl.  He  wanted  Rue  to  have  large  air  and 
broad  spaces  in  which  to  take  her  winged  way,  for  in  the 
depths,  the  under-depths,  of  her  purple-blue  eyes,  in  the 
pure  cadences  of  her  child  voice  and  the  Greek  rhythm  of 
her  little  hands  and  feet  there  seemed  to  slumber  a  divinity, 
that  celestial  light  which  informs  children  of  genius. 
Perhaps  now  Riches  and  Freedom  for  her  were  knocking 
at  the  door. 


THE  CONSTANTINOPLE  CLOAK         219 

Grandfather  was  brought  back  to  the  present  by  Aunt 
Serena's  entrance  into  the  library.  She  held  in  her  hands 
the  Constantinople  Cloak  and  came  to  consult  him  upon 
its  adaptibility  to  Rue's  wardrobe  in  the  event  of  this  jour- 
ney. Aunt  Serena  was  a  skilful,  an  inspired  remodeler. 
Her  keen  eye  and  plastic  fingers  saw  possibilities  of  trans- 
mutation and  rejuvenation  in  the  most  recondite  ma- 
terial. Her  own  gowns  were  turned,  were  dyed,  were  re- 
constructed, and  after  suffering  these  rich  sea-changes, 
they  could  be  traced  to  no  particular  time  or  country.  But 
they  still  retained  an  individuality  of  their  own  and  were 
racy  of  the  Penrith  breed.  It  was  only  the  rapidly-changing 
stature  of  the  two  children  that  prevented  their  garments 
from  attaining  this  static  calm. 

Years  ago  Grandfather  had  purchased  and  brought 
home  with  him  from  Constantinople  a  nondescript  gar- 
ment of  buff-colored  silk,  with  a  gorgeous  embroidered 
border  to  its  wide  sleeves  and  its  hem.  It  was  much  too 
short  for  a  woman's  coat,  too  long  for  a  child,  too  scantily 
cut  for  a  complete  gown,  and  too  precious  to  be  converted 
to  other  ends.  Therefore  for  years  it  had  lain  in  one  of  the 
white-painted  store-room  presses,  labeled  neatly,  below 
the  keyhole,  "His  Constantinople  Cloak,"  and  had 
gathered  to  itself  spicy  odor  and  increasing  yellowness  of 
hue.  In  the  emergency  of  Rue's  sudden  departure,  Aunt 
Serena  decided  that  now  was  the  auspicious  time  to  turn 
this  Turkish  trophy  to  some  useful  end.  With  the  aid  of 
Miss  Alvira  it  was  hastily  transformed  into  a  dust-coat 
for  delighted  Rue.  No  change  was  necessary  except  a 
shortening  of  its  skirts.  Miss  Alvira  and  Aunt  Serena 


220  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

exclaimed  alternately  in  strophe  and  anti-strophe  of 
praise.  What  a  fine  garment  it  would  be  for  protecting 
Rue's  pink  chambray  frock  and  her  clean  white  stock- 
ings from  the  dust  and  grime  of  unspeakable  railway 
travel! 

"  They  say  that  thar  turnall  beyant  Peruvia  is  something 
drefful, "  said  Miss  Alvira,  "  and  that  folks  come  outen  it 
a  perfick  sight. " 

She  felt  herself  a  traveled  person  thus  to  quote  so 
glibly  from  the  lips  of  cosmopolites  who  had  passed  through 
the  Peruvia  tunnel. 

Rue  and  Justine  were  allowed  to  further  these  activities 
by  ripping  the  embroidered  band,  Rue  at  one  sleeve  and 
Justine  at  the  other,  a  feat  they  accomplished  amicably 
after  Aunt  Serena  had  repressed  their  dangerous  proposi- 
tion of  a  race.  When  the  Constantinople  garment  had  been 
thus  dissected,  Aunt  Serena,  impressed  by  its  neutral 
elegance,  was  for  the  permanent  displacement  of  the 
gorgeous  embellishment  which  Turkish  taste  had  provided. 
Miss  Alvira  seconded  these  sentiments,  so  that  Rue  in 
great  perturbation  appealed  to  Grandfather  to  rescue  her 
cloak  from  vandalism.  He  gave  the  matter  his  thoughtful 
consideration,  Rue  wearing  the  garment  and  submitting 
herself  to  various  poses  with  the  embroidery  pinned  on 
and  then  removed,  while  Aunt  Serena  and  Miss  Alvira 
interposed  many  artful  asides  to  cajole  Grandfather  to 
their  point  of  view.  He  decided  —  oh,  fateful  moment  — 
in  favor  of  the  mooted  band,  as  being  "rich  in  hue  and 
pleasingly  recherche. "  Sotto  voce,  to  Aunt  Serena,  "  Af- 
filiating with  a  certain  piquancy  about  our  little  Rue. " 


THE  CONSTANTINOPLE  CLOAK         221 

Grandfather  had  a  decided  taste  in  garments  and  was 
becoming  more  liberal  in  his  aestheticism. 

Next  there  was  the  question  of  a  hat.  Rue's  summer  "hat 
had  not  yet  gone  through  its  annual  retrimming,  an 
adventure  in  a  rain-storm  having  impaired  its  original 
shape.  Therefore,  to  the  speechless  joy  of  the  attendant 
children,  the  store-room  was  again  resorted  to  and  a  white 
chip  hat  of  archaic  design  ( it  had  once  been  Danae's  ) 
selected  for  the  journey.  This  little  chip  hat  was  flat- 
crowned  and  small,  at  a  time  when  dimension  and  height 
were  the  dernier e  cri.  It  was  wreathed  with  brocaded 
ribbon  of  a  limp  and  dependent  character,  and  fastened 
with  a  pearl-studded  buckle  from  which  two  gentle  stream- 
ers fluttered  half  way  down  Rue's  back.  This  was  at  a 
time  when  the  ascendant  bow  and  the  mounting  aigrette 
fortified  the  castellar  fa9ades  of  our  approved  millinery. 
It  must  be  admitted  that  the  naive  chip  hat  in  its  archaic 
modesty  imparted  a  foreign  and  distinguished  air  to  the 
little  figure  which  it  surmounted. 


XXIII 
THE  TRAVELING  LOAF 

ELLEN  set  sponge  for  a  loaf  of  the  graham  bread 
that  Grandfather  always  took  with  him  in  travel- 
ing. He  could  eat  no  other.  Ellen's  bread  was 
highly  esteemed  at  Penrith  House.  Only  by  a  precarious 
and  checkered  career  had  its  culminating  excellence 
been  obtained.  She  had  gloried  at  first  in  Alpine  upheavals 
of  dough,  faintly  tinged  with  yellow  on  the  outer  crust,  and 
within  exhibiting  vast  irregular  cavities  between  which  the 
intermediate  substance  was  soft  and  gave  like  putty  under 
the  thumb's  pressure.  The  thumb  was  Aunt  Serena's  and 
as  Ellen  grew  older  she  shrank  in  her  shoes  at  the  unearthly 
cunning  of  that  prim  thumb,  which  seemed  to  share  with 
its  owner  a  fine  scorn  for  things  underdone,  over-broiled 
or  improperly  fried. 

"  Sure,  it's  a  wise  craythur,  the  Aunt's  thumb, "  remarked 
Ellen,  who  had  the  kindly  Irish  habit  of  identifying  her- 
self with  the  family,  as  if  aunthood  and  grandfatherhood 
were  universal  attributes  which  rained  upon  her  as  well 
as  upon  Rue  and  Justine. 

"I  warrant  it  cud  spake  if  it  had  but  a  pair  of  lips. 
I  know  by  the  face  on  it  what  itsilf  has  to  say  of  me 
bread. " 

Aunt  Serena's  thumb  had  facial  expression  and  denoted 

222 


THE  TRAVELING  LOAF  223 

many  shades  of  doubt,  disapproval  or  hearty  appreciation. 
He  would  have  been  obtuse,  indeed,  who  did  not  read  in  its 
limber  disgusted  curves,  or  pleased  erectness  an  infallible 
verdict  on  matters  culinary. 

Aunt  Serena  was  a  very  silent  lady,  her  thumb,  her 
little  finger  and  her  back  being  the  eloquent  members. 
With  her  little  finger,  which  was  long  and  supple,  she  in- 
dicated, tracing  out  the  course  of  rivers  on  the  map  and  the 
direction  of  trade-winds  around  the  revolving  globe  by 
means  of  which  the  dry  bones  of  geography  were  invested 
with  life  for  the  two  breathless  children.  Rue  would  ask 
her  to  trace  these  courses  a  second  time,  merely  to  prolong 
the  ecstatic  shiver  which  the  trail  of  that  elegant  little 
finger  communicated  to  her  system. 

Aunt  Serena's  little  finger  also  indicated,  delicately  and 
unrelentingly,  the  fly-specks  on  Rue's  napkin,  due  to  its 
being  negligently  left  without  its  protecting  linen  case,  and 
the  thin  places  around  the  edge  of  the  crinkled  creamy  top 
of  the  milk-pan,  where  Justine's  predatory  spoon  had  left 
telltale  lacunae.  Justine  was  not  really  at  fault  for  these 
awkwardnesses,  the  top  of  her  black  head  scarcely  reaching 
to  the  rim  of  that  alluring  vessel.  So  when  she  stood  on 
tiptoe  and  struck  out  laboriously  with  her  little  spoon, 
she  struck  at  random,  and  did  not  perceive  how  the  parch- 
ment-like cream  slid  out  of  its  normal  position  to  meet  her 
spoon,  in  obedience  to  laws  concerning  attraction  of  matter. 

When  Ellen  set  the  sponge  for  Grandfather's  traveling 
loaf  of  brown  bread,  she  apostrophized  it  ardently  as  she  , 
covered  it  with  the  damp  bread-towel. 

"Begorra,  it's  the  lovin'  loaf  of  bread  you'll  be  for  The 


224  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Grandfayther  to  carry  with  him,  betoken,  when  he  takes 

his  bit  journey,  the  poor  body. " 

The  day  had  passed  when  Ellen  received  a  silver  half- 
dollar  for  every  successful  progeny  of  loaves  that  her  oven 
brought  forth.  This  stimulation  was  no  longer  necessary, 
for  an  almost  unbroken  succession  of  unimpeachable 
bakings  proceeded  from  her  skilful  hands.  An  occasional 
reprehensible  loaf  attained,  like  Ahab  or  Jezebel,  a  bad 
eminence.  Grandfather,  half-humorously,  half-seriously, 
relegated  it  to  the  kitchen  to  be  reincarnated  as  bread- 
pudding  or  egg-toast  and  with  this  impressive  malediction. 

"  An  unworthy  and  retrograde  specimen,  Ellen.  Remove 
the  abomination. " 

Justine,  following  Ellen's  depressed  footfall,  shook  with 
righteous  indignation  from  every  square  inch  of  her  dimin- 
utive person. 

"Bominable  specible, "  she  reiterated,  chastening  the 
unhappy  loaf  with  the  long-handled  potato-beater. 

A  praiseworthy  loaf  is  of  a  symmetrical  and  even  shape, 
neither  grotesquely  hilly  like  volcanic  ranges,  nor  concave 
like  an  extinct  crater,  nor  flat  like  the  steppes  of  Russia. 
It  is  deeply  and  evenly  brown,  resounds  satisfactorily  to  a 
knock  on  the  underside  and  adheres  not  at  all  to  the  in- 
serted (and  clean)  broom  straw.  Those  tests  at  one  time 
Grandfather  was  himself  compelled  to  apply,  Ellen  stand- 
ing near  with  solicitous  apprehension  on  her  pock-marked 
features.  She  was  wont  to  watch  him  as  he  departed  from 
the  kitchen,  and  took  his  way  through  the  adjoining 
laundry,  up  the  area  steps  and  to  his  study-nook  beneath 
the  locust-tree. 


THE  TRAVELING  LOAF  225 

"  Thin-legged  in  the  calves,  but  a  good  head,  The  Grand- 
fayther. " 

It  was  this  traveling  loaf  of  bread  and  Ellen's  apostrophe 
that  disclosed  to  Justine  the  portentous  news  of  Grand- 
father's journey. 

"  Is  Uncle  going  to  make  a  journey,  Ellen  ?  Are  you  sure, 
Ellen?" 

"  Sure  I  be,  if  a  journey  is  a  travel,  that  he's  journeying 
for  to  take  a  travel,  and  a  deal  of  travel  it  means  to  me, " 
said  Ellen,  rhetorically  playful,  in  an  adaptation  of  the 
Penrith  vocabulary  that  had  become  an  adopted  tongue 
to  her. 

Ellen  went  from  pantry  to  store-room,  setting  forth  the 
spices  that  were  to  be  incorporated  into  pressed  beef  for 
Grandfather's  sandwiches.  Justine  tasted  a  bit  of  the 
hashed  meat  from  the  end  of  the  iron  spoon  while  Ellen 
was  in  the  dark  pantry.  Justine  sometimes  forgot  the  physi- 
cal fact  that  to  be  in  the  dark  does  not  incapacitate  one 
for  observing  what  takes  place  in  the  neighboring  light.  But 
Rue  was  absorbed  in  more  spiritual  matters. 

*  *  If  Grandfather  is  going  to  journey  on  a  travel, "  said 
she,  "  I  know  what  he  will  do.  He  will  find  me  a  mother, 
for  he  promised  it  a  long  time  ago.  I  hope  he  will  get  a 
pretty  lady  for  my  mother,  don't  you,  Justine  ?  " 

"  Will  she  be  my  muzzer,  too  ?  " 

"She  can't  be  your  mother,  then  she  would  be  two 
mothers,  no  lady  can  be  two  mothers, "  said  Rue,  tangling 
herself  in  her  passionate  exclusiveness. 

"  Why  can't  no  lady  be  two  muzzers  ?  " 

'*  You  go  and  get  a  mother  for  yourself  when  you're  old 


226  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

enough,"  said  Rue,  "or  I'll  help  you,  perhaps,  for  I'll 
be  a  big  lady  long  before  you're  as  high  ias  that  pencil 
mark  on  the  wall. " 

"  How  high  will  you  be,  Rue  ?  "  asked  Justine,  moved  by 
this  allusion  to  Rue's  speedy  aggrandizement. 

"  Oh,  awful  high,  with  hair  all  piled  up  like  a  tower  and 
long  dresses  bubbling  behind  me,  so  that  when  I'm  on 
the  bottom  stair  my  dress  won't  have  begun  to  switch 
around  the  banisters  on  the  toppest  stair  of  all.  " 

As  the  time  drew  near  for  Justinian's  departure,  a  face 
constantly  hovered  before  his  eyes,  not  Rue's  face,  but 
Danae's.  For  some  strange  reason  her  presence  seemed  with 
him,  beside  him,  possessed  the  chambers,  permeated  all 
the  byways  at  Penrith  House.  It  was  Danae,  Danae,  Danae, 
before  breakfast,  fluttering  down  the  stairs,  during  break- 
fast, drinking  her  coffee  and  smiling  over  the  cup's  rim, 
after  breakfast  cutting  honeysuckle  under  the  north 
window.  It  was  not  that  Grandfather  thought  of  Danae. 
Danae  dominated  him.  It  was  a  sudden  possession,  she 
had  seized  him  during  his  sleep,  hanging  over  him,  with 
her  long,  fair  hair  encircling  her  cheeks. 

She  had  said,  "  Father,  Father,  wake  up. " 

And  with  this  voice  in  his  ear,  Justinian  had  waked  up 
in  the  gray  of  four  o'clock,  only  to  know  that  Danae  was 
not  there,  that  for  years  she  had  been  gone,  her  chamber 
empty  and  the  door  closed. 

Still  that  voice  called  him,  "  Father,  Father,  wake  up ! " 

I  suppose  that  to  others  the  same  experience  has  come. 
An  absent,  a  distant,  a  faded  personality  suddenly  becomes 
real.  It  surprises  us  around  the  corner.  It  slips  down  the 


THE  TRAVELING  LOAF  227 

garden  walk.  It  flies  behind  that  sycamore-tree.  It  pauses 
on  the  sill.  It  glances  in  at  the  window.  It  springs  up  from 
that  familiar  chair.  We  see  the  face  a  dozen  times  as  we 
walk  down  the  street.  The  profile  turns  to  us  a  moment  in 
the  crowded  audience  —  always  it  is  the  same  face,  the 
same  person,  vivid,  but  vanishing.  Real,  but  incorporeal; 
present  to  the  eye,  beyond  the  reach  of  touch  or  voice. 
What  explains  this  psychological  phenomenon?  Is  it  our 
thought  or  another's  spiritual  presence  or  some  whimsical 
trick  of  memory  that  projects  a  semi-material  form  among 
the  blank  objects  of  actuality  ? 

Grandfather  sat  on  the  twisted  rustic  bench,  his  head 
in  his  hands. 

"  Danae,  Danae, "  he  murmured,  and  he  spoke  aloud. 
He  thought  to  embrace  a  slender  waist.  Danae  was  lan- 
guidly loving  and  used  often  to  perch  on  his  knee.  Justin- 
ian's arm  fell  to  his  side  again. 

The  unforgiven  wrongs  he  had  suffered,  in  a  way  that 
unforgiven  wrongs  have,  burned  and  burned  till  his  whole 
nature  seemed  the  hollow  pyre  of  their  conflagration.  It 
was  his  own  unforgiveness  that  burned  most  deeply. 

"  If  Danae  had  only  repented  her  final  words, "  he  said, 
"If  she  had  only  repented,  I  could  have  forgiven  her  — 
then. " 

"  You  will  be  sorry,  Father,  some  day. " 

The  words  rankled.  He  would  never  be  sorry,  he,  the 
sorely  sinned  against ! 

While  he  was  thus  thinking,  a  voice  in  front  of  him 
spoke : 

"A  telegram,  Justinian." 


228  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

He  took  the  envelope  but  his  eyes  were  unfit  to  read. 
News  and  news  of  Danae?  Harm  had  befallen  Danae, 
was  the  fear  that  hammered  at  his  side !  He  had  not  known, 
no,  he  had  not  known,  that  he  could  care  so  much. 

Aunt  Serena,  Rue,  Justine,  stood  hi  a  row  before  him. 
Aunt  Serena  hushing  Justine's  babbling  curiosity.  Rue 
with  elfin  eyes  strangely  earnest  upon  Grandfather's 
whitened  face.  The  boy  stood  irresolute  on  the  ash-path 
and  Ellen  apprehensive  at  the  blind  door.  For  a  telegram 
was  an  event  in  Joppa. 

"  I  do  hope  it's  not  the  Aunt  Elizabeth  be  afther  coming 
again,"  gurgled  Ellen,  regarding  the  yellow  envelope  as 
superstitiously  as  if  it  were  a  medium's  slate-writing. 

Grandfather  tore  open  the  message.  "  Six  o'clock,  June 
10th.  10  Throckmorton  Street. " 

"Nothing  alarming?"  said  Aunt  Serena's  gentle  voice. 

"Nothing  alarming,"  Justinian  replied.  "Merely  the 
reminder  of  an  appointment  I  have  long  expected. " 

In  his  mind  he  did  not  fail  to  connect  the  unknown 
Frederick  Droll  of  10  Throckmorton  Street,  with  the  un- 
known and  nameless  client  whom  E.  W.  Bastable  had 
represented  on  that  October  morning  in  his  library. 
Justinian  hated  a  mystery.  He  regarded  it  as  derogatory 
to  his  character  that  he  should  be  expected  to  become  party 
to  any  mysterious  or  anonymous  arrangement.  Frederick 
Droll,  whoever  he  might  be,  should  be  brought  to  see  the 
futility  of  acting  behind  a  mask.  That  he  was  Rue's  father, 
Dr.  Penrith  had  little  doubt.  And  the  meeting  with  him 
was  the  rendezvous  upon  which  he  was  to  set  forth. 


XXIV 
THE  NIGHT  TRAIN  AT  PERUVIA 

GRANDFATHER  brought  down  from  a  third- 
story  closet  his  rusty  black  valise,  the  same  one 
that  had  done  duty  years  before,  and  then  be- 
tween him  and  Aunt  Serena  the  ceremonial  of  packing  was 
performed.  The  sweet-smelling,  darkened  and  forbidden 
store-room  was  visited,  where  in  tiers  of  white-painted 
and  labeled  drawers  relics  of  past  generations  peacefully 
reposed.  Rue  and  Justine  and  the  kitten,  following  hard 
upon  Aunt  Serena's  heels,  inhaled  with  awe  the  delicious 
closeness  of  the  air  and  spied  out  tantalizing  glimpses  of 
sepulchered  ancient  garments,  brocaded  sashes,  yellow  fur 
muffs  that  once  had  been  white,  baby  shoes,  and  queer 
sleeves  of  stained  embroidery  with  darned  holes.  A  sur- 
reptitious ten  minutes  alone  in  that  Aladdin  house,  ob- 
tained with  great  difficulty  and  followed  later  by  eating 
the  Bread  of  Atonement  (  unbuttered  ),  resulted  in  such 
Babylonian  discoveries  as  filled  the  dreams  of  many 
nights  in  Rue's  after  life. 

In  Grandfather's  room  the  articles  he  purposed  for  his 
journey  were  arranged  in  assorted  piles.  Simple  and  few 
they  seemed  after  that  surreptitious  peep  into  the  glories 
of  the  darkened  presses.  No  pink  shoes,  no  yellow-white 
muffs,  no  embroidered  sleeves  nor  handkerchiefs,  no 

229 


230  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

sweet-smelling  flowered  neck-ribbons.  Only  a  pair  of 
austere  carpet  slippers,  a  pile  of  unbleached  socks,  some 
large  plain  handkerchiefs,  two  or  three  black  silk  cravats, 
(made  from  the  front  breadth  of  Aunt  Serena's  second- 
best  silk  dress)  and  other  garments  grandfatherly  and 
ascetic.  The  place  for  each  article  in  the  valise  was  debated 
with  serious  pros  and  cons,  for  there  was  not  an  inch  of 
space  to  be  wasted.  Aunt  Serena  had  a  genius  for  packing 
and  went  at  it  in  the  mathematical  and  artistic  spirit  of  a 
da  Vinci.  Grandfather  was  a  dialectic  and  desired  each 
theory  to  be  properly  exploited.  She  proposed  chalking  off 
a  diagram  of  the  bag,  with  appropriate  memoranda 
for  Grandfather's  use  when  he  came  to  repack,  but  this 
suggestion  was  rejected.  Like  all  talented  packers,  Aunt 
Serena  was  skeptical  as  to  other  people's  ability.  Rue,  if  she 
was  quiet,  non-investigating  and  non-interrupting,  was- 
allowed  to  sit  in  a  corner  of  the  mahogany  sofa  and  drink 
in  these  absorbing  discussions  that  were  to  her  as  weighty 
as  the  laying-out  of  cities.  An  undertone  of  sadness  lay 
beneath  the  talk,  that  gave  to  the  disposition  of  each  sock 
or  handkerchief  an  irrevocable  pathos.  Even  the  collar 
buttons  were  imbued  with  the  dignity  of  a  melancholy 
mission.  Rue  was  desirous  of  adding  something  to  Grand- 
father's comfort  and  bethought  herself  of  his  fondness  for 
nuts.  She  spent  a  laborious  morning  on  the  area  steps, 
cracking  some  of  last  year's  hickory-nuts  as  a  surprise 
for  hun.  These  she  carefully  picked  out  and  enclosed  in  a 
calico  bag  of  her  needlework,  that  the  token  might  be 
completely  her  own.  Wiping  away  the  tears  that  were  the 
result  of  a  mashed  finger  (from  the  hammer)  and  a 


THE  NIGHT  TRAIN  AT  PERUVIA        231 

bleeding  thumb  (from  the  needle),  she  approached 
Grandfather  with  her  offering. 

"Here  is  a  little  surprise  for  you,  Grandfather.  Please 
not  to  open  it  till  we  get  to  the  place.  I  made  the  bag  my- 
self. I  think  it's  quite  a  charming  little  bag.  You  don't 
know  what's  inside,  do  you,  Grandfather  ?  " 

Grandfather,  who  had  heard  all  the  morning  the  sound 
of  the  patient  hammer  on  the  stone  steps,  professed  hi 
evasive  yet  truthful  terms,  his  ignorance  of  the  contents  and 
embraced  Rue  with  such  warmth  that  he  cruelly  hurt  the 
bruised  finger.  She  was  sorry  to  let  him  know  about  it  but 
she  had  to  scream,  the  agony  was  so  great.  It  made  Grand- 
father feel  very  badly,  although  she  protested,  after  she 
was  calmer,  that  it  only  hurt  a  little  bit.  Justine  whimpered 
gently  also,  so  as  not  to  be  left  entirely  out.  It  was  rather  a 
moist  and  handkerchiefy  occasion  when  every  one  needed 
comforting.  As  Rue  was  descending  the  stairs,  with  Justine, 
Grandfather  said  to  Aunt  Serena: 

"A  noble  little  heart,  Serena,  despite  her  faults. " 

"  'At's  me,"  said  Justine,  and  Rue  did  not  contradict 
her,  knowing  in  her  own  mind  for  whom  the  speech  was 
meant,  and  wondering  why,  in  all  humility. 

Rue  was  instructed  by  Aunt  Serena  in  the  proper  use 
of  her  own  little  linen  traveling  case,  also  of  her  various 
pockets  and  of  her  handkerchiefs  through  all  their  ascend- 
ing degrees  of  excellence.  This  information  she  afterward 
graciously  disseminated  for  the  benefit,  to  wit,  of  Justine, 
brushing  her  hair  with  the  back  of  the  brush  in  the  Blue- 
bird Room,  of  Ellen,  turning  the  traveling  loaf  upside 
down  to  cool  on  the  kitchen  table,  and  of  Mr.  Boscoway, 


232  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

spraying  hellebore  on  the  currant-bushes  in  the  garden. 
The  time  might  come  when  they,  too,  should  be  called 
of  heaven  to  set  forth  on  a  journey. 

"I  am  going  so  far  away,  Justine,  that  when  I  am  just 
getting  up  in  the  morning  you  will  be  going  to  bed  at  night. " 

This  method  of  illustrating  the  distance  to  be  traversed 
failed  to  impress  Justine,  whose  mind  had  not  grappled 
with  the  rotundity  of  the  earth's  surface. 

"I  am  going  almost  to  the  other  side  of  the  globe, 
where  people  walk  on  their  heads. " 

"  You  will  have  to  walk  on  your  head,  too, "  said  Justine, 
giggling  at  the  awkward  impression  Rue  would  make. 

Rue  retrenched:  "Perhaps  we  shall  not  go  quite  so  far. 
Only  to  where  people  begin  to  sidle  a  little  so  as  to  stick  on. " 

The  revolving  globe  and  the  puppet  figures  with  mag- 
netized feet  were  showing  their  good  work. 

"That  is  why  Grandfather  always  carries  a  cane  when 
he  goes  away  on  the  cars.  Isn't  it,  Grandfather  ?  " 

"  Where  is  Rue  going,  Uncle  Justinian  ?  "  piped  Justine, 
hoping  for  some  slight  dimness  in  Rue's  insupportable 
crown  of  glory. 

"Only  to  New  York,"  replied  absent-minded  Grand- 
father after  four  times  the  question  had  been  shrilled  in 
his  ear.  He  was  deep  in  a  discussion  with  Aunt  Serena 
concerning  things  to  be  done  in  the  garden  during  his 
absence. 

"To  Noowalk,  only  to  Noowalk, "  cried  triumphant 
Justine.  She  thought  that  this  insignificant  name  dimin- 
ished in  a  degree  the  halo. 

"New  York  is  a  great  town,"  said  Rue  in  funereal 


THE  NIGHT  TRAIN  AT  PERUVIA         233 

accents.  "  There  are  lights  there  night  and  day,  like  heaven. 
It  takes  one  man  all  night  just  to  light  the  street-lamps. 
There  are  people  and  people,  thick  and  black,  running 
over  each  other,  like  ants  out  of  an  ant-hill.  Ellen  told  me 
so." 

"  Are  the  people  as  little  as  ants  ?  You  will  have  to  be 
careful  not  to  step  on  them, "  said  Justine,  giggling  again 
at  the  thought  of  Rue's  big  feet  and  the  havoc  they  would 
create. 

"They  look  little  and  black  because  there  are  so  many 
of  them, "  Rue  hoped  the  logic  would  satisfy. 

"And  there  is  a  woman  standing  alone  in  the  harbor, 
as  high  as  the  steeple  of  our  church  and  even  higher.  She 
holds  a  lamp  up  in  her  hand.  Her  name  is  Liberty  —  and- 
Light-in-the-World. " 

"She  has  a  hard-to-say  name.  And  why  doesn't  she 
walk  around  ?  " 

"  She  has  to  stand  in  the  harbor.  That's  why. " 

"Whatisahaba?" 

"It's  something  in  geography,"  said  Rue  grandly.  "I 
should  think  you  ought  to  know,  Justine.  You're  more 
than  half -past  three. " 

Justine  stood  guilty  before  this  accusation  and  was 
ashamed  to  betray  further  ignorance  in  the  presence  of 
such  erudition. 

Finally  the  hour  of  departure  came.  Mr.  Dewsnap  drew 
up  at  the  front  piazza,  with  Augustus  harnessed  between 
the  shafts  of  Mrs.  Gideon's  yellow  buckboard  carriage. 
The  travelers  set  off  between  the  golden  lights  of  the  grassy 
lane.  Ellen's  traveling-loaf,  the  pressed  meat,  the  hickory- 


234  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

nuts  and  other  luxuries,  skilfully  packed  into  a  shoe-box, 
were  deposited  on  the  seat  between  Rue  and  Grandfather. 

"We  shall  catch  the  night  train  at  Peruvia, "  said  he, 
as  if  he  were  exchanging  technical  knowledge  with  an 
expert  traveler. 

To  what  heights  Rue  at  once  mounted  in  her  own  im- 
agination! She  assumed  an  equally  impersonal  and  re- 
flective air. 

"At  what  time  shall  the  lunch  be  eaten?"  was  her 
venture. 

It  was  a  failure,  notwithstanding  that  clever  turn  in  the 
phraseology,  suggesting  solicitude  for  the  welfare  of  the 
lunch,  rather  than  for  the  eaters  thereof.  The  premature 
suggestion  must  have  reminded  Grandfather  of  Rue's 
tender  years. 

"  I  will  take  charge  of  the  lunch, "  he  replied  magister- 
ially and  bestowed  the  charmed  box  in  a  huge  pocket  of 
his  linen  duster. 

Rue  felt  deeply  compassionate  for  dear,  kind  Aunt 
Serena  and  poor,  lonely,  little  Justine  with  her  wretched 
kitten,  left  behind  in  obscure  and  insignificant  Joppa, 
while  she  and  Grandfather  rolled  away  behind  the  Pen- 
dragon  to  catch  the  night  train  at  Peruvia. 

Ah,  exotic  fragrance  of  those  syllables!  She  would 
"catch"  the  train.  The  thrilling  enterprise!  Nor  was  the 
reality  less  wonderful  than  the  bright  haze  of  anticipation. 

A  serpent  of  checkered  light  hissing  down  a  dark  valley. 
A  green  eye,  enlarging,  fringing  out  like  a  star,  bursting 
into  a  sun.  The  night  train  roars  into  the  Junction.  A 
sudden  medley  of  human  voices  and  superhuman  noises 


THE  NIGHT  TRAIN  AT  PERUVIA        235 

and  a  Vesuvian  eruption  of  people  and  things.  The  vesti- 
buled  train,  with  its  syncopated  visions  of  fragmentary 
life,  ladies  and  gentlemen  arid  children,  eating,  drinking, 
card-playing,  napping  —  or  the  drawn  curtains  of  the 
mysterious  berths !  White-jacketed  negroes,  shiny-buttoned 
conductors.  Tumultuous  many-colored,  many-voiced  con- 
fusion. 

The  night  train  at  Peruvia !  Richer  than  all  the  wonders 
of  the  Arabian  Nights,  more  adventurous  than  the  fabled 
tilts  of  ringing  crusaders  or  of  gentle  knights,  more  fantastic 
than  the  gambols  of  elves  within  forest  rings  or  of  stars  in 
their  places  —  is  the  night  train  at  Peruvia. 

Though  one  should  live  to  be  ten  thousand  years,  one 
could  never  outdo  the  sublimity  of  that  night. 

They  ate  the  lunch  after  they  caught  the  night  train 
at  Peruvia,  and  Grandfather  spread  a  large  silk  hand- 
kerchief over  Rue's  knees  that  by  no  possibility  could 
smutch  or  smudge  assail  the  Constantinople  cloak. 

In  the  onrush  of  all  these  events  the  lady  of  the  deserted 
garden  was  temporarily  swept  from  memory,  but  ever  and 
anon  her  image  would  return  to  Rue,  the  pale  blue  eyes 
like  Quaker-ladies,  the  little  hands  that  moved  when  she 
talked,  and  the  laughing  crying  face.  But  the  promise 
kept  her  silent. 


XXV 
IN  GREENWICH  VILLAGE 

JUSTINIAN  found  Throckmorton  Street  situated 
in  that  part  of  Manhattan  known  anciently 
as  Greenwich  village.  It  is  still  inhabited  by 
respectable  burghers  who  are  probably  many  of  them 
descended  from  the  Dutch  of  Peter  Stuyvesant's  day. 

Not  far  from  the  quiet  street  one  comes  upon  the  mid- 
sky  curves  of  the  elevated  tracks  and  the  noisy  shops  and 
shoppers  of  Sixth  Avenue.  In  another  direction  are  the 
wharves  and  ferries  and  wholesale  fruiterers  of  the  North 
river.  An  occasional  corner  has  swing-doors,  colored 
glass  windows  and  a  sign  that  reads  "  Charlie's  Place. " 
A  little  placard  displayed  between  dingy  curtains  and  a 
parlor  window-pane  entitles  another  house  "  Pension  Fran- 
9ais. "  Bareheaded  women,  neatly  gowned  in  black,  chafer  in 
foreign  accents  with  street  peddlers  of  stale  vegetables. 

Set  in  between  these  waymarks  of  an  incongruous 
civilization  lies  Throckmorton  Street,  a  substantial  village 
with  narrow  front  yards,  the  dignity  of  gates  and  fences 
and  the  rusticity  of  vines  shading  the  piazzas  or  draping 
the  house-fronts.  It  was  a  house  such  as  one  of  these  that 
Justinian  finally  approached.  Its  purple-hung  wistaria- 
vine  had  a  trunk  that  two  hands  could  not  encircle,  and  the 
stone  steps  were  worn  in  grooves  by  generations  of  visiting 

236 


IN  GREENWICH  VILLAGE  237 

feet.  On  the  right  side  of  the  steps  was  a  stone  hollowed 
out  as  a  drinking  basin  for  birds.  On  its  rim  a  couple  of 
sparrows  were  enjoying  a  leisurely  drink.  Here  indeed  was 
a  spot  almost  as  restful  as  Joppa's  rippling  meadows. 
Justinian  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  A  burden  was 
lifted  from  his  mind.  Perhaps,  after  all,  there  would  be  a 
felicitous  solution  for  little  Rue's  problem  of  heritage. 
Here,  also,  might  be  found  a  clue  to  lost  Danae's  where- 
abouts. Justinian  had  often  shuddered  in  his  dreams  at 
the  tinsel  paths  where  Danae's  feet,  perhaps,  wandered. 
But  10  Throckmorton  Street!  It  was  seclusion,  modesty, 
dignity.  Justinian  raised  the  heavy  knocker  and  let  it  fall. 
With  the  ring  of  brass  on  brass  his  heart  thumped.  The 
moment  of  the  long-looked-forward-to  is  appalling.  It 
takes  one's  breath  away.  One  cries,  "I  am  not  ready. 
Wait!"  But  when  at  last  the  long-looked-forward-to 
happens  one  is  calmed. 

The  sound  of  the  knocker  echoed  through  the  house. 
Before  it  was  answered  Justinian  had  time  to  look  about 
him.  The  door  had  diamond-shaped  glass  panes,  iron- 
grated  without,  behind  which  were  red  curtains.  The  other 
windows  were  closely  shuttered  and  the  blinds  were  cover- 
ed with  dust  as  if  they  had  been  long  unopened.  So  deep 
was  the  silence  after  the  knocker's  signal  that  Justinian 
consulted  his  watch  to  see  if  by  any  chance  he  had  made 
a  mistake  in  the  hour  of  the  appointment.  His  watch  stood 
at  three  minutes  after  six.  At  that  moment  the  six  o'clock 
whistles  began  to  toot  from  factories  by  the  river  and  under 
cover  of  the  noise  the  door  was  softly  opened  and  a 
woman  stood  before  him. 


238  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

She  stood  warily,  holding  the  handle  of  the  door  behind 
her.  She  was  an  immensely  tall  creature  of  advanced  years, 
with  young  wide-open  eyes  in  a  many-wrinkled  face.  She 
wore  over  her  print  gown  a  red-flannel  jacket. 

"I  am  Justinian  Penrith,"  said  he,  lifting  his  hat. 

The  woman  watched  his  lips  closely,  after  the  manner  of 
the  deaf. 

"You  are  expected,  sir.  Will  you  please  walk  in,  sir?" 

Her  tone  made  it  at  once  evident  that  she  was  servant, 
not  mistress. 

Justinian  was  ushered  into  a  darkened  parlor.  The  foot 
sank  into  the  thickly-carpeted  floor  as  if  into  a  bed  of  moss. 
In  the  dimness  little  could  be  discerned  except  silver 
streaks  from  mirrors  and  gold  streaks  from  large  picture 
frames  and  the  glimmering  white  of  a  marble  center-table. 
Underneath  a  glass  globe  near  Justinian's  chair  were  some 
potted  hyacinths,  done  in  wax,  pot  and  flowers  and  all. 
In  this  funereal  chamber  he  was  left  for  a  few  moments  to 
his  own  reflections.  They  were  not  inspiriting,  having 
suffered  a  collapse  from  the  cheerful  tenor  of  the  wistaria- 
draped  front  stoop. 

So  thickly  was  the  room  carpeted  that  again  he  did  not 
hear  any  sign  of  a  human  presence  till  the  red-jacketed 
woman  stood  before  him. 

" Will  you  please  walk  up-stairs,  sir?"  she  said. 

He  followed  her  up  two  flights  of  stairs.  Not  till  he 
reached  the  second  landing  did  he  think  to  ask  her  a  ques- 
tion. He  was  plainly  at  a  disadvantage,  himself  known, 
ushered  into  a  strange  house,  into  a  presence  of  whom  he 
knew  nothing. 


IN  GREENWICH  VILLAGE  239 

"  One  moment,"  said  he  in  his  most  compelling  accents, 
"who  is  the  master  of  this  house?" 

The  woman  opened  wider  her  childlike  eyes. 

"  Up  this  way,  sir,"  she  said,  pointing  skyward  a  sibylline 
finger.  It  was  evident  that  she  had  but  hah*  heard  or  half 
understood  Justinian's  question. 

She  led  the  way  up  the  last  flight,  opened  two  great 
doors  and  a  flood  of  sunlight  blinded  Justinian's  eyes.  He 
stood  on  the  threshold  of  an  apartment  that  comprised 
the  whole  top  floor  of  the  house.  It  was  radiant  from 
windows  opening  north  and  south  and  from  a  sky-light 
in  the  ceiling.  The  floor  was  bare,  inlaid  with  beautiful 
wood  in  the  natural  color.  It  was  furnished  with  the 
sumptuous  negligence  that  one  associates  with  the  studios 
of  popular  artists.  When  Justinian's  eyes  had  accustomed 
themselves  to  the  change  of  light,  he  saw  before  him  a 
young  man  of  the  most  singular  ugliness  that  it  had  ever 
been  his  fortune  to  behold.  He  was  short  and  had  a  breadth 
of  shoulders  hinting  at  deformity.  The  loose  dressing- 
gown  that  he  wore  displayed  the  muscles  of  his  neck  and 
arms.  The  sinewy  modeling  and  the  contour  of  his  jaw 
and  cheeks  were  like  those  of  a  Hercules,  yet  the  chalky 
whiteness  of  his  skin  and  the  hollows  where  flesh  should 
have  been  betrayed  long  suffering  from  disease.  Con- 
trasted with  the  whiteness  of  his  skin  were  lips  vividly 
red,  drawn  to  a  painful  smile.  The  tip  of  his  tongue  was 
thrust  between  his  teeth  as  he  smiled  or  spoke,  as  if  from 
clumsiness  of  physiological  structure. 

"I  thank  you,  Dr.  Penrith,  for  coming,"  said  he,  in  a 
thick,  lisping  voice.  Though  the  voice  was  thick  and  lisping, 


240  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

it  was  not  unmanly  nor  unpleasing.  A  bell-note  was 
muffled  in  it  that,  at  the  touch  of  emergency,  would  ring 
clarion-true. 

Dr.  Penrith  did  not  take  the  chair  to  which  the  young 
man  beckoned  him.  Instead,  he  straightened  himself  and 
spoke  in  his  deliberate  way. 

"You  will  admit,  sir,  that  it  is  natural  for  an  interview 
to  be  prefaced  by  mutual  introductions.  You  have  the  ad- 
vantage of  me,  sir.  So  far,  I  have  proceeded  in  ignorance 
of  your  identity." 

The  young  man  winced,  as  for  the  first  time  he  turned 
his  eyes  to  meet  those  of  Justinian  Penrith.  The  young 
man's  eyes  were  brown,  bloodshot,  and  moist  with  emo- 
tion. They  seemed  to  crouch  and  apologize  for  his  ugliness, 
for  his  sickness.  The  next  moment  they  hardened  and 
swerved  aside,  in  haughty  indifference  to  his  guest  and  the 
interlocutor. 

Justinian  quailed  before  the  mingled  suffering  and 
hardihood  of  those  bloodshot  brown  eyes.  He  could  think 
of  nothing  to  say  till  Frederick  Droll  again  spoke. 

"I  am  Peter  Kenyon's  cousin," 

"Ah,  that  is  it?"  said  Justinian,  with  a  rush  of  intelli- 
gence, as  in  one  brief  second  a  crowd  of  past  conjectures 
resolved  themselves  out  of  the  mist  and  took  definite  shapes. 

"You  represent  Peter  Keynon?" 

"You  are  mistaken,  Dr.  Penrith,"  said  Droll,  smiling 
painfully,  his  tongue  between  his  lips.  "  I  do  not  represent 
Peter  Kenyon,  I  do  not  even  know  where  in  the  world 
Peter  Kenyon  is.  I  speak  for  myself." 

The    alternating    currents    of    hope,    fear,    conviction, 


IN  GREENWICH  VILLAGE  241 

bewilderment  that  had  beaten  upon  Justinian  during  the 
last  hour  left  him  exhausted  almost  to  insensibility.  He 
felt  the  bright  room  blackening,  his  forehead  clammy.  He 
tottered  and  would  have  fallen  if  Droll  had  not  sprung  to 
his  aid.  The  gaunt,  great-boned  face  of  the  younger  man 
hardly  reached  to  his  shoulder,  yet  Droll's  arms  were  strong. 

When  Dr.  Penrith  came  to  his  senses,  he  was  on  a  divan, 
Droll  had  drawn  a  screen  across  the  sky-lights  and  veiled 
the  glare  from  the  south  windows.  He  held  a  glass  of  cordial 
to  the  elder  man's  lips. 

"Liquor?"  said  Justinian. 

"Liqueur,"  Droll  corrected  gently. 

Justinian  waved  aside  the  tiny  beaker.  "A  glass  of 
water  will  suffice,  thank  you,  Mr. —  Droll  —  I  am  quite 
strong  again.  The  unusual  occurrences  of  the  day  have 
somewhat  disconcerted  me  — 

"  I  understand,"  said  Droll,  letting  his  strange  gaze  rest 
for  a  moment  sympathetically  on  Justinian's  overwrought 
face,  the  tortured  deep-set  blue  eyes,  and  the  sensitive 
thin  cheeks,  half-hidden  by  the  carefully  combed  gray 
beard.  "  The  woman  will  bring  dinner  to  us  soon." 

"  I  must  ask  you  to  excuse  me,"  said  Justinian  sternly. 
"Let  us  finish  our  interview." 

Droll  pushed  an  electric  bell  in  the  wall. 

"  I  beg  of  you,  sir,  to  do  me  the  honor.  The  circum- 
stances are  unusual.  You  are  faint  and  should  not  be  de- 
prived of  your  accustomed  meal.  What  I  have  to  say  re- 
quires time.  Later,  I  will  explain  my  singular  method  of 
procedure.  That  is,  if  you  wish  it.  Meanwhile,  let  me 
begin  my  saying  that  I  loved  your  daughter  Danae  —  I  - 


242  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  Give  me  a  moment's  time,"  cried  Justinian,  breathing 
hard,  and  spilling  the  glass  of  water  from  which  he  had 
been  about  to  drink. 

"  You  —  you  —  I  thought  we  were  to  talk  of  —  of 
money  —  of  Rue  —  You  are  —  My  God !  You  are  the 
father  of  —  Tell  me  that  you  are  Danae's  —  husband." 

Droll's  bloodshot  brown  eyes  flew  into  flames. 

"  I  am  not  married  to  Danae  —  "  he  said,  the  lisp 
leaving  him  and  his  voice  ringing  hard. 

Justinian  steeled  himself  to  be  quiet.  "You  mean  that 
you  loved  her  and  —  she  —  did  not  —  love  you  ?  " 

Frederick  Droll  rose  from  the  stool  upon  which  he  sat. 
The  flowered  Japanese  dressing-gown  he  wore  brought 
out  cruelly  the  disproportioned  figure,  the  emaciated, 
features  and  the  scarlet  mouth. 

"  Look  at  me !  Would  a  woman  like  —  Danae  love  —  a 
man  like  me?" 

The  way  in  which  he  met  Justinian's  awed  eyes  combined 
the  bravado  of  the  daredevil  with  the  humility  of  the  slave. 

"The  seeds  of  this  disease  were  planted  then,"  he  said, 
"  when  Danae  refused  to  love  me.  I  will  not  be  pitied  —  I 
am  glad. " 

There  arose  before  Justinian's  eyes  the  vision  of  two 
figures  —  Danae,  half -butterfly,  half -human,  her  soft  vain 
lavender  eyes,  her  exquisite  hands,  her  voice  that  asked 
for  caresses,  and  her  smile  that  expected  adoration.  A 
thing  that  floated  but  never  walked ;  that  laughed  and  cried 
but  did  not  think.  Beside  her,  this  chalky  travesty  of  a  man, 
with  the  savage  jaws  and  the  hungry  cheeks.  No,  Danae 
had  not  loved  him.  He  was  not  Rue's  father. 


IN  GREENWICH  VILLAGE  243 

"  I  loved  Danae, "  Droll  began,  over  again.  "  She  gave 
herself  to  another.  Rue  was  born,  and  yet  that  child  was 
mine.  I  was  with  Danae  always  —  before  its  birth.  I 
taught  Danae  all  she  knew  of  life  and  loveliness,  —  I 
and  —  Peter.  When  she  was  ill  and  shut  her  eyes  and  could 
not  bear  the  sight  of  me  I  read  to  her,  sang  to  her  —  I  was 
to  her  Art,  Italy,  Greece.  I  filled  her  mind  full,  full  during 
those  months  that  went  before.  ,1  took  her  to  the  opera, 
to  the  play, —  I  —  and  Peter.  I  made  him  do  it.  He  was 
beginning  not  to  care.  That  child  was  mine.  You  may  not 
believe  it,  Dr.  Penrith,  but  I  trundled  her  perambulator 
up  the  Rialto  one  day.  The  nurse  had  gone,  Danae  flown 
off  on  one  of  her  tantrums.  There  was  no  one  but  myself 
to  attend  the  child.  I  was  scene-painting  on  the  top  floor 
of  the  Lyceum.  I  trundled  the  baby  with  me  and  gave  her 
the  bottle  between  dabs  of  my  brush.  I  declare  to  you  it 
made  the  Rialto  stare.  It  was  spring  and  full  parade  on 
Broadway. " 

The  picture  in  Justinian's  mind  was  a  confused  one: 
Rialto,  scene-painting,  Lyceum,  were  terms  not  included 
in  his  vocabulary. 

"  At  last  I  took  the  baby  from  Danae.  She  let  me.  She 
did  not  care.  I  took  her  to  —  you.  Danae  did  not  know.  I 
believe,  sir,  up  to  this  point  all  is  clear. " 

Frederick  Droll  paused  and  his  lips  twisted  to  their 
peculiar  contortion.  Justinian,  observing  automatically  the 
facial  gesture,  saw  that  it  was  the  outward  symbol  of  frightful 
physical  pain,  an  anguish  that  stilly  convulsed  him. 

Here  the  red-jacketed  woman  returned  with  trays  of 
dinner  and  the  conversation  ceased. 


244  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  I  generally  mix  my  own, "  said  Droll,  choosing  between 
two  amber-filled  bottles  that  he  produced  from  a  side- 
board, "but  that,  like  everything  else,  is  becoming  a 
deuced  deal  of  a  bore. " 

Once  more  he  spoke  with  a  lisp  and  with  a  mocking 
light  in  the  full  eyes.  He  added  a  maraschino  cherry  or  two 
from  another  bottle  and  sipped  with  a  contented  air.  There 
was  a  third  species  of  cocktail  of  which  Justinian  partook. 
The  cracked  ice  and  the  spicy  red  compound  in  which  the 
oysters  were  immersed  gave  them  a  new  relish.  Here  sat 
the  two  men,  one  wrecked  with  physical  and  both  with 
mental  anguish,  yet  commanding  themselves  sufficiently 
to  discuss  a  dinner.  Marvelous  are  the  uses  of  habit. 
The  occasional  presence  of  the  woman  slipping  silently 
back  and  forth  helped  them  to  remain  outward  masters 
of  the  situation. 

But  the  refinements  of  the  culinary  art  were  lost  on  both 
host  and  guest.  The  clang  of  the  street-cars  dully  roared 
outside,  the  sunset  streaked  the  polished  floor.  The  woman 
took  away  the  untasted  plates.  Their  minds  were  for  other 
matters.  Penrith  drank  his  coffee  hastily,  pushed  aside  the 
cheese  and  biscuit. 

The  woman  lighted  oil  wicks  in  various  old-world  lamps, 
that  depended  from  the  ceiling  or  were  set  on  shelves 
against  the  walls.  A  Dutch  lantern,  a  gondola  lamp,  and  a 
Russian  pontifical  candelabrum,  they  flecked  the  twilight 
with  glancing  points  of  yellow.  It  was  a  fancy  of  Droll's 
to  collect  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe  their  individu- 
alities in  lamp  and  candle-shapes. 

"  I  like  to  see  them  in  the  semi-twilight, "  he  said,  half- 


IN  GREENWICH  VILLAGE  245 

apologetically.  "  They  break  up  the  dusk  into  flakes  without 
dispersing  it.  Have  you  ever  noticed  the  street-lamps  just 
before  dusk  ?  How  vividly  blue  they  throw  out  the  envelop- 
ment of  street  and  roof-line. " 

Justinian  scarcely  followed  this  idle  comment.  He 
noticed  that  the  immense  stature  of  the  red-jacketed 
woman  enabled  her  to  reach  with  ease  what  Frederick 
Droll  could  not  have  achieved  except  by  use  of  chair  or 
table. 

The  woman  left,  closing  the  door  behind  her.  The 
young  man  sipped  his  Benedictine,  fondling  a  cigar  be- 
tween his  spectral  fingers.  Justinian,  in  his  worn  clerical 
coat,  short  in  the  waist  and  long  in  the  tails,  with  a  certain 
noble  negligence  about  his  collar  and  cravat,  was  oddly 
enough  contrasted  with  the  Japanese-gowned  figure  of  his 
eccentric  host.  Yet  both  were  dominated  within  by  the 
same  passions ;  disappointed  ambition,  crushed  love,  and  a 
fierce  desire  to  know  the  other's  mind  and  purpose. 

"  Dr.  Penrith,  before  we  proceed  further,  will  you  claim 
your  due  of  questioning  me?  There  are  doubtless  points 
which  have  aroused  your  curiosity  and  upon  which  you 
have  every  right  to  be  informed. " 

Droll  had  the  knack,  instinctive  with  some  men,  ac- 
quired through  varied  experience  with  others,  of  "  placing" 
his  companion,  whoever  it  might  be,  and  so  adapting  him- 
self as  not  to  jar  upon  that  companion's  accustomed  mode 
of  thought  and  life.  The  Frederick  Droll  who  now  convers- 
ed with  Justinian  Penrith  was  not  the  same  Frederick 
Droll  who  might  share  a  seat  with  Pogson  the  drummer  in 
yesterday's  Overland  Express,  or  who  might  chat  with 


246  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Saensen,  the  "musical  critic  in  the  lobby  of  a  playhouse. 

"  I  cannot  remain  with  you  much  longer, "  said  Justinian, 
"  I  have  an  appointment  at  a  Conference  later  in  the  eve- 
ning. It  seems  that  we  have  not  yet  come  to  the  reason  for 
this  meeting  — 

"  As  you  have  perhaps  guessed, "  said  Droll,  evidently  in 
dread  of  the  finality  to  which  he  was  forcing  himself;  "it 
has  been  through  me  as  a  medium  that  during  the  last  six 
years  five  hundred  dollars  has  been  annually  placed  at 
your  disposal.  It  has  been  my  pleasure  to  do  this  —  for 
Danae's  sake,  who  is  lost  to  me  —  as  to  you  —  and  for 
her  child." 

The  old  man  leaned  forward,  the  look  of  his  eyes 
scourging  Droll's  pallid  face. 

"Tell  me,"  said  he,  "why  you  chose  last  fall  that 
strange  anonymous  method  of  approaching  me. " 

"Last  fall!  Strange  and  anonymous!"  repeated  Droll 
blankly. 

"Through  your  lawyer,  E.  W.  Bastable." 

"I  know  of  no  such  man.  I  did  not  approach  you  last 
fall.  At  that  time,  indeed,  I  was  ill  and  delirious  in  my 
Italian  villa. " 

Dr.  Penrith  proceeded  to  relate  in  detail  the  circum- 
stances of  Bastable's  call. 

"Curious,  curious,"  cried  Droll.  "I  did  not  dream  that 
any  one  else  in  the  world  took  an  interest  in  —  in  our  — 

"In  my  granddaughter  Rue,"  finished  Dr.  Penrith 
sternly. 

"  But  —  this  Bastable  matter  aside, "  continued  Droll, 
"we  will  with  your  permission  return  to  it  later,  my 


IN  GREENWICH  VILLAGE  247 

present  and  sole  errand  in  this  country  is  concerning  Rue. 
I  love  her  —  for  Danae's  sake,  who  is  lost  to  me  —  and  I 
wish  to  adopt  her  for  my  own. "  He  did  not  notice  the  con- 
traction and  hardening  of  the  old  man's  features. 
"  I  will  endow  her  with  my  property.  I  will  — 
The  old  man  again  leaned  forward,  again  the  look  of 
his  eyes  scourged  the  pallid  face. 

"  Where  is  —  Danae's  husband  ?  Send  me  to  —  him.  " 
"  Do  you  not  know,  do  you  not  know  —  Danae's  his- 
tory ?  "  the  sick  man  cried. 

Grandfather  dropped  his  face  into  his  hands  without 
a  sound. 


XXVI 
FREDERICK  DROLL'S  DESIRE 


was  the  only  person  who  ever  brought  me 
content.  " 

Droll  had  for  some  time  been  speaking,  but 
only  at  this  sentence  did  Justinian  become  aware  of  his 
voice. 

"I  could  not  explain  it  then.  I  cannot  explain  it  now. 
But  she  brought  me  supreme  content.  I,  the  restless,  the 
eager,  the  burning,  with  that  profound  loneliness  which 
gnaws  the  heart,  with  her  was  at  peace.  I  had  found  the 
center  of  my  universe.  But  she  was  not  for  me.  That  is 
the  way  this  world  is  put  together.  She  all  for  Peter  Kenyon, 
—  he  for  another,  —  I  all  for  her.  She  was  part  of  me,  the 
flame  in  my  eyes,  the  sword  across  my  breast,  the  unshed 
tears  behind  my  sight,  the  water  in  which  I  was  dissolved. 
It  was  all  Danae  —  And,  should  she  come  back,  I  would 
feel  the  same  heart-beat,  the  beat  that  chokes,  the  same 
uplift,  the  uplift  that  blinds,  that  kills.  " 

Justinian  was  profoundly  moved.  The  man's  extrava- 
gances were  sincere.  Even  as  he  spoke,  his  face  wore  an 
unearthly  glow.  Like  the  revelation  of  a  lightning  flash 
there  came  to  Justinian  the  end,  the  end  of  such  a  love,  the 
love  that  conquers  or  slays. 

"  Why  did  you  not  stay  by  Danae  ?  " 

£48 


FREDERICK  DROLL'S  DESIRE  249 

"  My  presence  irritated  her.  She  resented  my  protection. 
She  escaped  me.  Ah,  it  was  my  supreme  effort  for  her 
happiness  that  enabled  her  utterly  to  rid  herself  of  me. 
She  would  have  none  of  me.  She  was  not  for  me. " 

Frederick  Droll  looked  stonily  out  of  his  despair. 

"  Great  God,  if  Danae  had  been  for  me,  I  would  have 
known.  All  my  heart  went  out  to  the  little  abandoned 
child.  I  took  her  to  you  because  I  knew  your  home  would 
be  safe  for  her.  I  could  make  her  no  home.  And  all  these 
years  I  have  thought  of  her  and  worked  for  her.  Ay,  have 
prayed  for  her. "  The  bloodshot  brown  eyes  flickered  half 
in  shame. 

"  I  knew  in  the  end  you  would  not,  could  not  keep  her 
from  me.  I  have  built  her  year  by  year,  in  my  heart,  a  little 
house.  I  have  made  it  ready  for  her,  chamber  by  chamber. 
There  are  the  books  a  child  would  love,  the  pictures,  the 
statues.  A  garden  with  a  fountain,  a  stone  seat  with  a  vine 
above  it  in  the  sun. " 

Droll's  emotion  mastered  him.  The  tears  filled  his 
throat.  He  wrung  his  fingers  and  a  flush  overspread  his 
marble  face. 

Again  was  Justinian  profoundly  moved.  He  could  scarce- 
ly believe  the  man  sane,  such  swift  passions  swept  through 
his  speech. 

"  Where  is  this  house  —  this  home  ?  " 

"  It  is  on  one  of  the  lakes  in  northern  Italy  —  where 
the  climate  is  more  of  heaven  than  of  earth  where  alone  - 
I  can  hope  —  to  live.  There  the  vineyards  lean  down  to 
the  shore,  and  the  olive-trees  between  the  trellises  flow  out 
like  puffs  of  silvery-green  smoke.  All  day  long  the  wood- 


250  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

dove  mourns  in  the  forests  of  chestnut  and  walnut,  and  the 
water  laps  the  strand  all  day  long  under  the  shadow  of 
mountains  as  tender  as  mountains  of  cloud. 

The  roofs  of  the  villages  glow  like  rough  jewels  of  rose- 
color  and  red,  and  the  curved  sails  flutter  idly  back  and 
forth  from  shore  to  shore." 

Droll  seemed  lost  in  the  picture  he  was  limning,  and  his 
long  fingers  moved  nervously  as  if  he  held  palette  and 
brush. 

"The  luscious  days  and  the  soft  dim  nights,  when  all 
the  lake  is  strung  with  jewels,  with  the  star  shining  on  San 
Primo's  forehead  and  the  alpine  glow  making  twin 
amethysts  out  of  the  peaks  of  the  Grigne.  And  the  child 
Rue  and  I,  in  our  little  garden  full  of  the  scent  of  jasmine 
and  Camellia.  Varenna  will  twinkle  and  float  upward  to  us 
in  peasant  music  and  dance.  We  shall  be  so  happy  together 
—  at  last. " 

He  paused,  realized  himself  and  Justinian. 

"  You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying, "  Dr.  Penrith 
spoke  almost  pityingly.  "  You  do  not  know  what  you  ask. 
Shall  I  give  my  granddaughter  up  to  you,  a  stranger  ? " 

"  I  have  bared  my  heart  to  you, "  cried  Droll  fiercely. 
"  Am  I  a  stranger  ?  Do  you  doubt  the  unselfishness  of  my 
love?  Look!"  He  took  from  his  pocket  a  cheque  already 
made  out  and  passed  it  across  to  Dr.  Penrith.  Mechanically 
the  old  man  read  it. 

"Ten  thousand  dollars." 

"  Do  you  think,  sir, "  he  cried  angrily,  "  that  money  can 
buy  from  me  my  own  flesh  and  blood  ?  " 

He  turned  as  if  to  go,  the  gray  lines  of  anger  in  his  face. 


FREDERICK  DROLL'S  DESIRE  251 

"  Hear  me, "  cried  Droll.  "  It  is  not  of  you  I  am  thinking. 
It  is  of  her.  Think  of  her,  think  of  the  child,  the  girl,  the 
woman.  Is  a  fortune  nothing  to  her,  to  her  happiness  ? 
What  can  you  offer  her?  Poverty,  obscurity,  a  nameless 
heritage.  And  I?  I  will  adopt  her,  give  her  my  name, 
provide  her  with  suitable  companions  —  away  from  the 
home  of  her  —  mother's  disgrace,  nothing  will  be  known 
except  what  I  make  known.  All  Europe  shall  be  hers  to 
command,  she  will  be  the  idol  of  fortune  — and  my  idol 
as  well. " 

Again  the  force  of  his  desire  coupled  with  his  physical 
suffering  smote  him  dumb  and  his  voice  sank  to  inarticulate 
hoarseness.  Penrith  began  to  regard  him  pathologically. 
This  obsession  had  possessed  Droll's  mind  for  years. 
He  must  be  cured  of  it  gently,  slowly. 

"Money,  a  fortune,  is  not  to  be  contemned.  It  may 
bring  much  richness  to  a  life  —  it  smoothes  many  obstacles 
before  one's  feet.  A  woman  is  not  constituted  to  battle 
with  poverty  —  all  this  I  know  and  realize  full  well.  It  is 
true  that  from  the  material  point  of  view  I  have  little  to 
offer  the  two  children  under  my  care.  Justine  has  a  small 
inheritance  but  as  for  Rue  —  when  she  is  older  —  she  will 
have  to  go  out  and  make  her  own  way.  I  thank  you  for  your 
deep  and  sincere  devotion  to  —  my  daughter's  child  - 

Penrith  had  spoken  the  final  word.  Droll  was  crazed.  The 
insane  desire  of  a  self-willed  man,  of  a  sick  man,  filled  him, 
would  not  let  go  of  him. 

"  Danae  —  Danae's  child  —  what  right  have  you  — you 
cast  her  off  —  I  saved  her  —  saved  her  from  herself.  You 
denied  her  —  Danae,  Danae's  child.  Give  her  to  me!" 


252  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

The  spear-point  of  truth  in  his  ravings  struck  to  Penrith's 
heart.  It  was  true  that  he  had  denied  Danae,  cast  her  off. 
He  stood  silent,  a  prisoner  at  the  bar,  guilty,  dumb.  Droll 
had  fallen  to  his  knees  and  clung  to  a  chair  for  support. 
Thus,  neither  man  perceiving  the  other,  both  struggled 
with  themselves.  The  roar  of  the  elevated  trains  went 
steadily  on,  throbbing  in  the  distance,  thundering  by, 
puffing  and  gasping  at  the  station,  hissing,  thundering, 
throbbing,  dying  in  the  distance  and  so  —  over  again. 

The  jammed  humanity  packed  within,  black  without, 
packed  and  black  like  beehives  a-swarm,  went  steadily  by 
above  and  below.  Each  passenger  an  entity,  the  center  of 
a  sharp  individual  life. 

Droll  coughed  very  slightly,  coughed  a  little  blood  into 
the  handkerchief  which  he  held  to  his  mouth.  He  rose. 

"Let  me  for  the  moment,"  said  Justinian,  "put  aside 
the  thought  of  Danae's  daughter.  She  is  for  the  moment 
happy  and  cared  for.  It  is  not  so  well,  perhaps,  with 
Danae. " 

"  Perhaps !  Do  you  not  know  ?  "  flamed  Frederick. 

"  I  know  nothing  except  that  I  have  failed  in  the  crises 
of  life  and  that  I  want  my  daughter  again.  Will  you  not 
help  me  find  her  ?  " 

The  old  man's  voice  was  pitiful.  Frederick  and  Fred- 
erick's love  for  Danae  had  shamed  him  and  out  of  the 
shame  had  reawakened  his  stifled  yearning. 

"Find  Danae/"  Droll  burst  out.  "You  man,  you 
father,  you,  you,  do  you  not  even  know  ?  " 

The  old  man  bent  his  head  in  acknowledgment  of  the 
proud  stubbornness  that  had  kept  him  ignorant. 


FREDERICK  DROLL'S  DESIRE  253 

"  I  have  never  written,  I  have  never  heard  from  her,  I 
have  never  known  —  since  Danae  left  my  house. " 

"  Poor  Danae !  It  was  true  then,  what  she  told  me.  I  could 
scarcely  believe,"  cried  Droll,  the  drops  standing  on  his 
forehead.  "How  bitter  you  were  and  — how  you  cared!" 

"Cared!  My   God!" 

"  We  will  look  for  Danae, "  said  Frederick  Droll,  reach- 
ing a  hand  to  Penrith.  "  Afterwards,  —  what  of  Rue  ?  " 

"It  will  depend  on  the  issue,"  said  Penrith.  "Who 
knows  ?  " 


XXVII 
ANGELA  FIELD 

THE  two  men  met  again  the  next  day.  Frederick 
Droll  had  used  such  means  as  he  found  readily 
at  hand  in  the  search  for  Danae.  He  had  visited 
Bastable  who  remained  unmoved  in  his  determination  to 
keep  his  client's  secret. 

"  Let  me  tell  you  what  I  know  of  Danae's  history, "  said 
Droll  to  Dr.  Penrith,  "and  then  we  may  plan  our  next 
step.  When  Danae  first  left  — her  home  — she  came  to  New 
York  and,  through  the  agency  of  Peter  Kenyon,  then  un- 
known and  poor  but  brilliant,  talented,  she  posed  for 
several  months  as  artists'  model.  Of  course  she  saw  a 
great  deal  of  Kenyon  with  whom  she  was  madly  in  love. 
And  a  fascinating  chap  he  was,  with  a  head  like  a  Greek 
god,  an  engaging  laugh,  the  fantastic  Irish  humor,  and 
genius  enough  to  have  set  all  New  York  a-talking,  if  he 
had  only  applied  himself  persistently.  Things  went  on 
gaily  for  a  while,  Danae  growing  lovelier  and  more  loving, 
and  Kenyon,  selfish  devil  that  he  was,  playing  with  her 
heart  as  if  it  had  not  been  the  heavenly  jewel  that  a  wo- 
man's heart  is. " 

Here  Droll  paused,  coughed  a  little,  looked  hard  out  of 
the  window,  then  contorted  his  lips  to  his  grim  smile  and 
proceeded.  "After  a  while,  as  things  go  in  this  world, 

254 


ANGELA  FIELD  255 

Kenyon  fancied  her  indispensable  to  his  work,  his  guiding 
star,  genius,  subliminal  inspiration  and  all  that  rot.  He 
hadn't  a  cent.  She  hadn't  a  cent.  He  didn't  want  to  get 
married  but  he  wanted  Danae.  He  was  full  of  the  French 
feeling,  life  in  the  Latin  quarter,  Manon  Lescaut  and  that 
sort  of  thing  —  They  —  they  - 

The  old  man  winced  as  if  the  shadow  of  a  physical  blow 
was  dashed  across  his  vision. 

"  They  took  a  picturesque  studio  on  the  East  Side  and 
lived  together.  Oh,  it  was  no  loose  partnership. "  With 
his  tearful  bloodshot  eyes.  Droll  seemed  to  soothe  the  old 
man's  tortured  face. 

"  They  lived  some  years  thus,  he  modeling,  she  posing 
for  him,  singing  for  her  own  and  others'  amusement.  She 
took  lessons  —  that  was  through  me  —  I  was  at  their 
studio  half  the  time.  It  was  all  quite  idyllic,  Arcadian. " 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  —  that  Danae  —  was 
happy  ?  " 

The  anguish  in  the  old  man's  hands  was  pitiful  to  see. 

"  Danae  was  a  bird,  a  butterfly  — yes,  she  was  happy  — 
till  —  till  Rue  was  born.  They  had  not  wanted  the  child  — 
They  had  not  expected  her.  Danae  rebelled  against  her. 
And  then  —  about  then  —  Kenyon  changed,  grew  in- 
different, impatient,  restless.  Wanted  to  go  to  Paris,  to 
Rome,  for  study  —  Danae  and  the  child  were  a  burden. 
That  was  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

"  Then  Danae  pulled  oft'  her  first  little  success  on  the 
stage.  Shall  I  tell  you  of  that?" 

"  There  is  one  point  you  have  not  yet  mentioned, "  said 
Dr.  Penrith,  commanding  himself  with  difficulty.  "  Danae's 


256  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

marriage.  After  the  child  was  born  —  surely  there  was  — 

"  I  am  coming  to  that.  Peter  didn't  want  to  marry  her, 
even  when  he  loved  her  his  selfish  best.  She  would  have 
taken  him  in  a  moment.  He  swayed  her,  body  and  soul. 
We  kept  at  him,  argued  with  him,  threatened,  cursed 
him,  and  the  beast  finally  did  offer  to  marry  her. 

"And — and — she  flew  at  him  in  a  fury  of  scorn.  She 
wouldn't  have  him.  It  was  just  before  her  first  success  on 
the  stage.  I  began  to  tell  you  of  it. 

"  Roland  Randall  was  a  friend  of  theirs,  a  man  with  a 
lot  of  money,  some  brains  and  prodigious  vanity.  He  was 
a  drawing-room  entertainer,  a  Browning  Reader,  an  apostle 
of  the  Oscar  Wilde  cult.  He  was  ambitious  to  rise  above 
the  long-haired  womanish  vogue,  to  play  Hamlet,  Othello, 
the  Cid,  to  be  the  real  thing. 

"After  Rue  was  born  he  came  oftener  than  ever  to  the 
studio.  He  was  one  of  those  that  joined  with  me  in  urging 
Danae  and  Peter  to  be  married,  for  the  child's  sake,  if  for 
no  other  reason. 

"Hamlet  was  finally  put  on  at  Wallack's  Theater,  for 
two  or  three  special  performances.  Danae  was  Ophelia. 
She  had  been  studying  with  Randall  for  months.  She  pulled 
the  performance  through.  Her  pearly  voice,  her  vanishing 
grace,  the  rare  quality  of  her  beauty  —  " 

Droll's  voice  ceased  again,  with  that  premonitory 
rattle  that  preceded  one  of  his  painful  attacks. 

"  For  twenty-four  hours  she  was  the  talk  of  the  dramatic 
crowd  along  Broadway.  She  went  wild  over  her  little 
success.  It  gave  her  new  spirit,  life,  zest.  But  Kenyon  was 
more  than  ever  mad  to  break  the  traces.  An  enterprising 


ANGELA  FIELD  257 

manager,  by  name  Joseph  Beak,  of  Beak  and  Blumen- 
thein,  picked  her  up  and  put  her  in  training.  Poor,  pretty, 
light-hearted,  hurt  Danae.  I  believe  Peter  Kenyon  was 
worth  more  to  her  than  all  the  world,  career,  stage  distinc- 
tion and  fortune  — The  studio  wasn't  so  idyllic  those  days. 
Now  that  Danae  was  by  way  of  earning  a  name  and 
position  for  herself,  the  road  seemed  open  to  Kenyon." 

"  He  did  not  leave  her  without  —  without  —  They 
were  married,  Danae  and  —  Rue's  father  ?  "  questioned  the 
burning  eyes  of  Justinian  Penrith. 

Frederick  gravely  inclined  his  head. 

"  It  was  arranged  after  a  fashion.  Kenyon  to  be  free  to 
leave  her.  Danae  to  get  a  divorce  uncontested,  on  grounds 
of  desertion  after  the  proper  length  of  time.  Kenyon  to 
send  five  hundred  dollars  annually  for  the  support  of  the 
child.  This  to  continue  till  Rue  was  sixteen  or  till  the 
mother  married  again.  Danae  to  resume  her  maiden  name. 

"  Oh,  it  was  a  heartbreaking  business,  Dr.  Penrith,  that 
marriage  of  Danae's  after  the  ardors  and  ecstasies  of  the 
first  months  together. 

"  It's  a  strange  world,  isn't  it,  two  souls  blown  together 
in  space  from  nowhere  and  breaking  into  bright  flame  as 
they  unite  to  one.  Then  blown  apart  again  and  wiped  out 
into  darkness  one  from  the  other.  The  most  rapturous 
intimacy,  bonds  one  would  think  eternal.  Out  of  it  all, 
what  ?  Hatred,  indifference,  a  whiff  of  smoke!" 

Frederick  paused,  breathing  the  cigarette  smoke  deli- 
cately upward,  watching  it  fade  toward  the  ceiling. 

"  I  was  Danae's  adviser,  man  of  affairs.  Kenyon  had  his 
boxes  packed  and  off  to  Europe,  before  you  could  say  Jack 


258  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Robinson.  I  happened  on  Danae  the  night  after  his  de- 
parture. She  had  come  home  from  a  rehearsal  in  her  stage 
dress,  a  dancing  skirt  mottled  with  velvet  like  a  butter- 
fly's wing  —  She  sat  on  the  lowest  step  of  Kenyon's 
modeling  stand,  about  the  only  article  of  furniture  there 
was  left  in  the  apartment,  except  the  baby's  crib.  The 
janitor's  little  girl  was  watching  the  baby  who  slept  as 
sweetly  as  if  she  were  in  the  heart  of  Paradise. 

" '  Fred,  it's  all  done  with,'  cried  Danae,  laughing  like 
a  child.  '  Ken's  gone  to  Europe.  I've  got  a  place  with  Beak 
and  Blumenthein.  It's  off  with  the  old  and  on  with  the  new. 
The  king  is  dead.  Long  live  the  king.'  She  rose,  pirouetted, 
clapped  her  hands  and  laughed  till  my  heart  ached.  The 
little  child  awoke  and  held  out  its  arms  to  be  taken  up. 
A  dear  little  child  she  was,  with  such  soft  fingers  and 
eyes  like  flowers  and  vague  smiles  that  came  and  went. 
But  Danae  never  noticed  the  child,  what  with  her  mad 
laughter  and  dancing  — 

' '  Don't  stand  there  like  a  whitewashed  mummy,  Fred,' 
she  cried,  'shake  hands  and  have  it  good-by  for  it's 
Quits  with  the  old  life.' 

"  Her  laughter  cut  me  to  the  heart  more  than  tears.  I 
wanted  to  gather  her  to  my  arms,  rock  her  and  soothe 
her  till  the  laughter  ceased  and  she  would  sob  on  my 
breast  like  a  tired  child. 

"'What  of  the  little  one?'  I  cried. 

"'Babes?'  (That  was  what  we  called  her.  She  had 
never  a  name  but  that.)  A  strange,  hard  look  crept  into 
Danae's  child-eyes. 

'"I  cannot  mother  Babes,'  she  said.  'You  take  her, 


ANGELA  FIELD  259 

Fred.  You  need  her.  She  will  love  you.  You'll  be  a  better 
mother  than  ever  I've  been. ' 

"Poor  little  Danae  laughed,  compassionately,  self- 
scorn  ingly. 

"Tha.t  was  how  Rue  came  to  me.  Do  you  see  why  I 
love  her  ? 

"  Then  I  talked  to  Danae.  My  heart  was  bursting  with 
love  for  her.  I  dared  not  let  her  know.  I  talked  like  the 
stern  moralist,  the  cynical  philosopher,  I  tried  to  incarnate 
before  her  the  critical,  relentless  world  before  whose  judg- 
ment she  would  have  to  stand  or  fall. 

"She  listened  indifferently,  then  loathly,  then  angrily. 
She  was  adorable  in  her  anger. 

" '  I  am  sick  of  you,  Fred, '  she  burst  out,  '  I  do  not  like 
the  sight  of  you.  You  remind  me  of  —  things  I  am  going 
to  forget.  Please  leave  me,  please  go  —  out  of  my  life 
forever.'  Forever!  That  was  her  word. 

"'May  I  kiss  you,  Danae,'  I  said,  'just  once,  for  the 
child's  sake!' 

"  She  bent  to  me,  she  was  taller  than  I,  and  I  touched 
her  temples  with  my  lips. 

'"Think  gently  of  me,  dear  Fred,'  she  said.  (  As  if  I 
or  any  man  could  ever  do  otherwise ! )  Then  she  flung  a 
coat  round  her  and  went  to  an  inner  room.  I  have  never 
seen  her  since  that  night.  " 

There  was  silence  in  Droll's  apartment.  The  old  man 
fingered  a  portfolio  that  lay  on  the  table.  Droll  lighted  a 
cigar  and  paced  like  a  caged  beast  from  window  to  window. 

"Of  course  there  was  the  money,  Kenyon's  money. 
I  was  responsible  for  that.  After  the  child  went  to  you— 


260  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

I  sent  the  money  to  you.  It  was  no  longer  necessary  for  me 
to  communicate  with  Danae. " 

"  And  Kenyon  —  he  kept  to  his  agreement  ?  "  asked  the 
old  man,  struggling  to  find  what  redeeming  manliness  he 
might  in  —  Rue's  father.  Droll  hesitated  but  an  instant. 

"The  money  never  failed  to  arrive,"  he  said  in  his 
clearest  voice. 

But  it  was  he  himself  who  had  made  up,  year  by  year, 
the  deficient  fund. 

Something  in  Droll's  voice,  in  the  averted  eyes,  caught 
at  Justinian's  throat.  He  felt,  all  of  a  sudden,  his  own 
contemptible  steeliness.  He  yearned  after  the  quality  of 
mercy. 

"  God  pity  and  forgive  me, "  he  said.  "  They  were  but 
children,  after  all. " 

"She  was  a  little  wandering  child,"  said  Frederick, 
with  bitter  inner  reservation. 

"What  of  her  life  since?"  asked  Dr.  Penrith  slowly, 
a  dread  deepening  in  his  eyes. 

"After  I  took  the  child  to  you,  I  left  the  country.  I 
wrote  to  Danae  once,  giving  her  my  permanent  foreign 
address  and  asking  her  to  write  me  if  she  should  change 
her  mind  toward  me  or  need  me  in  any  way.  I  have  never 
heard  from  her. 

"Since  my  return  I  have  made  inquiries.  She  went 
through  the  mill  of  a  stock  company,  Hazel  Kirke,  Camille, 
and  the  rest.  Oh,  of  course  it's  caviar  to  the  great  public, 
to  whom  the  coming  and  going  of  minor  reputations  among 
player-folk  is  of  less  account  than  the  advent  or  departure 
of  the  peanut-vender  from  the  street  corner.  Then,  still 


ANGELA  FIELD  261 

under  Beak's  patronage,  Danae  waxed  popular  for  a 
season.  Now  —  she  has  vanished. " 

"Vanished, "  echoed  Dr.  Penrith,  who  had  been  follow- 
ing Droll's  narration  with  anxious  attention  — "  What 
do  people  say  ?  What  do  they  think  ?  What  of  this  Beak  ?  " 

"I  can  get  nothing  from  him.  He  professes  absolute 
ignorance.  People  who  think  about  the  matter  at  all  wonder 
vaguely.  Some  say  it  was  only  personal  influence  that 
gained  her  a  position  in  Beak's  metropolitan  company. 
Others  whisper  other  tales.  Perhaps  she  did  not  justify 
the  hopes  of  her  manager.  Perhaps  the  public  proved 
fickle.  But  reputations  come  and  go.  Few  have  taken  the 
trouble  to  follow  her  career. " 

Droll  threw  his  cigar  into  the  empty  fireplace  and  flung 
himself  face  downward  on  his  divan. 


XXVIII 
ALONG  THE  RIALTO 

FREDERICK  DROLL  and  Justinian  Penrith  de- 
cided to  begin  their  search  for  Danae  among 
the  theatrical  folk  who  encamp  on  Broadway- 
Between  Twenty-eighth  and  Forty-fifth  Streets  there  are 
perhaps  a  dozen  theaters  on  both  the  east  and  west  sides 
associated  with  a  variety  of  amusements,  from  spectacle 
and  ballet,  generally  London-imported,  and  the  society 
comedy,  also  English,  to  the  rural  farce,  comic  opera  and 
the  exploitation  of  vaudeville  acts  and  of  individual  clever- 
ness, these  strongly  American  in  derivation.  The  theaters 
are  most  of  them  wedged  inconspicuously  between  the  small 
shops,  the  great  hotels,  the  saloons,  the  heterogeneous 
office-buildings,  the  apothecaries  and  confectioners  that 
compose  the  polychrome  and  lively  front  of  New  York's 
most  characteristic  thoroughfare.  Except  for  the  numerous 
pictorial  devices  setting  forth  the  play  or  the  players  that 
hedge  about  these  theatrical  entrances,  or  the  illuminated 
signs  that  scintillate  at  night,  a  disinterested  stranger 
might  pass  up  and  down  Broadway  many  times  and  not 
notice  the  prevalence  of  the  histrionic  profession,  or,  more 
technically  speaking,  of  "  the  profession  "  in  that  quarter 
of  the  city.  Dr.  Penrith  had  many  times,  in  his  younger 
days  before  the  seclusion  of  Joppa,  traversed  the  length 


ALONG  THE  RIALTO  2C3 

of  Broadway,  unaware  of  a  single  theater,  ignorant  of  the 
names  of  the  most  successful  actress  whose  features  flour- 
ished on  fa9ade,  blank  wall  or  road-mender's  temporary  ap- 
paratus. The  bill-poster  is  like  the  quick-witted  spider  who 
sanguinely  seizes  the  momentary  support  of  your  hat  brim  or 
shoe-buckle  as  the  terminal-point  of  his  weaving.  So  the  bill- 
poster (seemingly  a  night-toiling  species  whose  products 
blossom  full  grown  in  the  morning),  seizes  the  casual 
opportunity  of  an  ash-barrel  or  ephemeral  tool-house  for 
the  display  of  his  ingenuity.  Justinian  might  even  have 
passed  through  the  perfumed  thick  of  a  matinee  crowd 
without  discovering  its  quality,  or  mingled  with  the  seedy 
group  that  hovered  in  front  of  the  Actors'  Society  or  the 
Gaudenzio  Exchange,  and  not  perceived  its  character. 
For  what  we  know  nothing  of  we  do  not  see,  but  when 
our  eyes  are  opened  to  a  new  fact  we  are  reminded  of  it 
daily. 

Behind  the  doors  of  these  inconspicuous  and  often 
narrow  entrances,  opens  out  a  great  auditorium  with  a 
stage  that  reaches  backward  to  infinite  space.  One  wonders, 
when  emerging  on  the  street  again,  how  there  is  room  with- 
in the  four  sides  of  the  variously  crowded  city  block  for 
the  tier  on  tier  of  humanity  and  the  mimic  world  to  which 
he  has  been  spectator. 

Upon  some  side  street  or  other,  apparently  in  absolute 
detachment  from  the  box-office  entrance,  is  an  iron  gate 
or  wooden  door  or  a  brown-stone  stoop  —  and  this  is  the 
stage-entrance,  defining  in  that  direction  the  limits  of  the 
labyrinthine  interior  of  the  Broadway  playhouse.  This 
door  is  zealously  guarded  by  a  soiled  and  surly  porter. 


264  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

The  soiled  and  surly  porter  has  for  his  chief  function  the 
Cave  Canem  attitude  in  speech  and  gesture  and  look.  He 
keeps  away  from  the  portal  the  zealous  stage  aspirant,  the 
unarrived  playwright,  the  infatuated  stage-struck,  all 
those  who  seek  by  "  climbing  in  at  the  window  "  to  secure 
the  manager's  or  the  star's  attention.  The  number  of  such 
is  legion.  But  the  initiated  know  an  open  sesame  by  which 
they  may  pass  the  theatrical  Cerberus.  Frederick  Droll 
possessed  this  open  sesame,  and  it  was  to  the  byways  of 
this  world  that  he  introduced  Justinian  Penrith. 

There  were  such  signs  as  these,  engraved  on  glass  doors, 
gilded  on  large  windows,  staring  at  the  end  of  dusky 
corridors : 

Ben  Keeler's  Enterprises;  the  Original  Tracy  the  Out- 
law; The  Gillaney  Plays;  Al  Wehman;  Sara  Klaw;  the 
Beauty  Girls  Co.;  Eastern  Ass.  Vaudeville  Man.;  Harry 
Golden,  Sec.;  Westward  Ho;  The  Dramatic  Looking- 
Glass;  The  Rialto  Roar,  and  many  other  such  cabalistic 
titles  and  abbreviations.  But  who  runs  may  read,  if  he 
runs  in  theatrical  harness.  These  are  distributing  centers 
for  men  who  control  the  theatrical  markets  throughout  the 
country.  From  the  brains  of  these  hat-wearing,  often  coat- 
less,  and  generally  hawk-nosed  individuals,  who  turn  over 
masses  of  "paper"  and  interview  briefly  the  people  sum- 
moned, emanate  the  second  and  third-rate  dramatic  com- 
panies who  put  up  for  one-night  stands  at  the  smaller 
towns  throughout  the  country.  Here  do  the  applicants 
register  themselves  for  "The  Flaming  Arrow"  and  "A 
Wife's  Wrongs." 

Here  is  the  preliminary  business  transacted  that  shall 


ALONG  THE  RIALTO  265 

inaugurate  Miss  Pinky  Patrician  as  a  danseuse  of  the  first 
order  in  Sioux  City.  Here  are  the  bloodhounds  captured 
for  Eliza's  pursuit  to  thrill  future  audiences  in  Bloody 
Gulch.  Hither  flock  also  the  incapacitated,  the  left-behind, 
the  superseded  actors  and  actresses  whose  career  has 
begun  the  retrograde  descent;  or  the  raw  recruit,  fresh 
from  dramatic  school  or  amateur  triumph,  who  seeks 
real  "experience." 

Here  also  are  booked  the  secondary  companies  that  float 
on  the  waves  of  a  great  metropolitan  success.  They  strive 
to  repeat  for  the  intellectual  and  moral  stimulation  of 
more  isolated  communities  the  triumphs  of  a  red-haired 
Phryne,  the  pseudo-historical  freaks  of  a  play-king's 
play-mistress,  or  the  superhuman  cunning  of  a  British 
Gaboriau. 

There  are  Agencies  presided  over  by  some  frizzled  and 
moon-cheeked  Madame  and  her  attendant  satellites,  a 
fluffy  girl  or  two  at  a  clicking  desk  and  a  smooth  boy, 
tendencies  of  past  profession  in  alert  legs  and  hints  of 
future  ambition  in  sardonic  Caesarean  lips.  Unto  Madame 
resort,  timidly  or  flashily  as  the  case  may  be,  the  host  of 
unemployed  "professionals"  and  would-be  professionals. 
Drop  in  between  ten  and  twelve  in  the  morning  and  study 
the  comedies  and  tragedies  enacted  before  Madame's 
eagle-eyed  front.  An  auburn-haired  girl  stands  with  assur- 
ance born  of  a  modish  gown  and  a  popular  brilliance  of 
hair,  and  smilingly  answers  Madame's  laconic  queries.  What 
experience,  what  roles,  what  street  address  —  these  facts 
briefly  given  suffice.  A  statement  of  age  is  superfluous,  being 
subject  in  origin  to  the  fancy  of  the  registered  and  in 


266  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

result  to  the  credulity  of  the  registrar.  One  is  apt  to  take  a 
fresh  start  once  in  a  while,  going  back  a  few  paces  as  the 
runner  does  before  a  hurdle. 

Experience?  "None,  that  is  what  I  am  looking  for," 
is  the  trembling  answer.  Good-morning,  and  you  are 
dismissed.  The  bejeweled  hand  does  not  take  the  trouble 
to  inscribe  your  name.  Enter  another: 

Experience  ?  "  Twenty  years. "  The  voice  is  cracked,  the 
smile  wavering.  He  buttons  a  frayed  coat  more  closely 
to  conceal  the  lack  of  linen.  The  moon-faced  smile  is 
pitying  but  discourages.  The  last  three  companies  he  has 
been  with  will  suffice.  He  has  harked  back  to  long  ago 
when  he  had  "  the  figure  of  a  Marquis. "  Call  next  week. 
Good-morning.  Perhaps  he  will  call  next  week,  perhaps 
not.  It  makes  little  difference.  His  day  is  past  for  a  lucrative 
"  signing." 

The  auburn-haired  girl  still  hovers,  ingratiating  herself 
with  office-boy  and  shirt-waist  girl.  She  has  diplomacy. 
Her  role  is  the  emotional.  Madame  has  added  something 
under  her  name  in  the  registry-book.  Brilliant-Locks 
surmises  it  to  be  a  favorable  memorandum  on  her  slim 
waist  and  aristocratic  carriage.  Good-by,  au  revoir, 
she  flourishes  out  with  such  an  emanation  of  prosperity 
that  the  incoming  little  girl  conceives  her  to  be  already  a 
Leading  Lady  and  is  duly  impressed,  The  last-comer's 
pretty  face  and  plumed  hat  might  distract  attention  for 
a  moment  from  the  home-made  bodice  and  the  cotton 
gloves.  But  not  for  long.  The  evidences  of  thrifty  penury  do 
not  escape  Eagle-eyes.  Boston  stock  ?  When  ?  You  were 
lucky.  Why  did  you  leave  ?  Want  a  metropolitan  try,  eh  ? 


ALONG  THE  RIALTO  267 

We'll  see  what  we  can  do.  Call  every  morning  before  ten. 
The  ponderous  hand  writes  her  down,  a  pretty  face  for  a 
chorus  or  minor  ingenue.  She  may  get  in  as  sixth  ballet- 
girl  in  "  The  Adventures  of  Ethel, "  in  which  a  girl  no  older 
and  no  prettier  than  she  is  playing  the  leading  role  and  earn- 
ing her  thousands  monthly. 

A  ripple  of  interest  runs  through  the  office.  Something 
different  is  going  to  happen.  These  are  types  that  have 
come  and  gone.  The  auburn-haired  girl,  the  frayed  gentle- 
man, the  plumed  and  shabby  ingenue,  chiffon-veiled  ladies 
whom  you  could  not  by  any  possibility  imagine  ever  to 
have  sat  before  a  sitting-room  fire,  the  bow-legged  young 
men  with  satiny  hair,  all  these  are  not  individuals,  they  are 
species.  You  may  leave  them  all  at  Madame  Gaudenzio's 
and  find  a  similar  assortment  at  the  Delleville  Agency  in 
the  next  block,  or  lounging  about  the  frame  dwelling- 
house  owned  till  of  late  by  the  Actors'  Society.  You  have 
only  to  open  the  proper  door  and  the  same  entomologic 
assortment  tumbles  to  view,  like  eccentric  insects  that  creep 
out  from  under  a  lifted  stone. 

But  to-day  at  Madame  Gaudenzio's  new  specimens 
appear.  The  other  insects,  thrilled  by  the  novel  appearance, 
creep  more  rapidly,  wave  inquisitive  tentacles,  erect  a 
head,  or  bulge  an  eye,  as  entomologic  habit  may  demand. 
The  ripple  of  interest  reaches  the  registrar  of  specimens 
behind  her  book,  fetching  a  less  automatic  smile  to  her 
well-trained  lips  and  creating  in  her  glance  a  new  and  hu- 
man gleam. 

Enter  Rue  and  Grandfather. 


XXIX 
THE  GAUDENZIO  AND  THE  BEAK 

THERE  are  eminent  men  and  there  are  eminent- 
looking  men.  Justinian  was  one  of  this  latter 
class.  Clothes  not  built  by  a  correct  tailor, 
ignorance  of  the  latest  method  of  carrying  a  cane  and 
absolute  unconsciousness  of  the  Picadilly  hand-shake, 
a  hat  that  belonged  to  no  particular  season  and  fitted  any 
hour  of  the  day,  a  collar  and  a  cravat  unclassifiable  in  any 
department  of  a  "  Gentlemen's  Outfitters, "  a  growth  of 
hair  and  beard  that  defied  the  newest  canons  in  that 
department  of  forestry;  these  were  trifles  that  sank  below 
the  surface  when  you  met  Justinian's  eyes  or  came  under 
the  spell  of  his  courtly  manners.  He  had  thin  legs,  sunken 
cheeks,  an  almost  attenuated  frame.  You  only  noticed  the 
richness  of  his  eyes,  the  commanding  forehead,  the  pecu- 
liarly irradiating  smile.  He  had  the  look  of  being  Somebody, 
of  taking  precedence,  of  wielding  authority,  of  dispensing 
grace.  The  fluffy  girl  deferentially  ceased  her  rattle.  The 
Caesarean  youth  pulled  a  chair  aside.  The  powdery  lady 
made  a  half-f rightened  salute  through  her  pink  and  white 
and  black-spotted  veils.  Justinian  bowed  to  each  and  every 
one  and  leading  Rue  by  the  hand,  a  meek  and  thrillful 
hand,  approached  the  Registrar  of  Specimens.  The  Dame 
arose  and  met  Justinian's  courtly  hand  with  a  queenly 

268 


THE  GAUDENZIO  AND  THE  BEAK       269 

hand  of  her  own.  She  had  "done  the  heavy"  in  her  day 
exceptionally  well  and  was  ready  for  all  emergencies. 

"  I  have  been  sent  to  you,  Madame  Gaudenzio,  by  my 
friend  Mr.  Frederick  Droll.  " 

The  name  was  sufficient.  Madame's  smile  widened  to  the 
gold  teeth  on  either  side.  She  murmured  pompous  sweet- 
ness. Justinian  asked  for  the  privacy  of  an  inner  room. 

"Come,  Rue."  The  child  had  already  noted  many 
strange  and  interesting  people  to  be  studied,  after  they  had 
finished  studying  her.  She  had  been  present  before  at  long 
and  wearying  discussions  between  Grandfather  and  other 
elderly  persons  in  private  rooms  behind  glass  doors.  Such 
discussions  had  little  more  animation  than  the  bumbling 
dialogues  between  two  middle-aged  bees  among  the  front- 
porch  vines. 

"  Please,  Grandfather,  I  would  rather  stay  here.  It  is  so 
excellently  cool. " 

Her  reasoning  prevailed.  Grandfather  and  Madame  dis- 
appeared behind  a  door.  The  fluffy  girl  began  to  click. 
The  rest  of  the  people  in  refreshed  silence  studied  the 
child's  little  figure  in  the  Constantinople  cloak  and  her 
na'ive  profile  against  the  Broadway  window.  Her  profile,  on 
account  of  a  delicious  fullness  of  the  lower  lip,  a  shortness 
and  delicacy  of  the  chin,  was  more  than  childlike.  It  was  a 
baby's.  The  limpidness  of  her  look  was  denoted  by  the 
shape  of  the  lids  and  the  curve  of  the  cheek.  The  curls 
that  fell  to  her  waist  reminded  one  of  old-fashioned  story- 
books. It  is  not  often  that  seven-year  old  children  possess 
such  length  and  luxuriance  of  hair.  Her  white  stockings, 
before  the  revival  of  that  style,  looked  quaint  enough  for  a 


270  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

masque,  and  the  little  chip  hat  with  its  buckle  and  stream- 
ers touched  the  high-water  mark  of  the  unfashionable. 
Such  slight  variances  as  these  excited  more  speculation  in 
that  office  than  would  a  street-car  collision  or  a  subterran- 
ean explosion. 

Rue  had  already  forgotten  her  surroundings  in  the  cyclo- 
rama  of  the  passing  town  as  viewed  from  the  second-story 
window-pane. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  street  two  living  advertisements 
paced  slowly  southward  toward  Herald  Square,  an  enor- 
mously tall  fellow  and  a  wee  mite,  both  uniformed  in  red 
and  placarded  back  and  front  with  the  name  of  a  new 
patent  medicine.  The  crowd  hurried  this  way  and  that, 
hardly  giving  a  second  glance  to  these  walking  bill-boards, 
men  who  have  sunk,  through  ill  luck  or  scant  intelligence, 
to  a  dehumanized  livelihood.  The  sensitive  passer-by 
must  feel  in  regard  to  them  that  strange  unreasoned  shiver 
that  the  old  romancers  tell  us  one  felt  in  the  presence  of  a 
werwolf  or  of  Melusine.  Strange  legends  these  of  the  soul 
of  a  snake  or  a  wolf  inhabiting  human  flesh.  The  same 
sort  of  shiver  creeps  up  one's  spine  at  the  performance  of 
Pantaloon,  of  a  sensational  preacher,  or  an  hysteric  actress, 
humans  dehumanizing  themselves  for  the  amusement  of 
humans. 

"  Oh,  Grandfather ! "  cried  Rue,  forgetting  her  hand  was 
not  still  in  his,  "Look,  quick!  The  scarlet  Giant  and  the 
little  Elf.  They  have  walked  right  out  of  the  fairy  book. 
Look,  quick!" 

The  passion  of  a  little  child  to  share  her  enjoyment 
with  another  throbbed  in  Rue's  voice.  The  clear  childish 


THE  GAUDENZIO  AND  THE  BEAK       271 

treble  clarified  the  Gaudenzio  office  like  a  breeze  on  a 
muggy  day. 

Joseph  Beak  had  just  entered  the  place  and  over  him, 
also,  that  baby  brightness  flew. 

Joseph  Beak  is  a  great  name  on  the  Rialto.  Beak  and 
Blumenthein  are  princes,  potentates.  Between  them  they 
rule  the  great  country  of  melodrama  and  spectacle.  They 
may  make  or  unmake  reputations  by  the  stroke  of  a  pen. 
They  may  throne  or  dethrone  an  actor  by  the  pressing  of  a 
button.  They  deal  in  millions.  They  juggle  with  the  public. 
They  gamble  in  that  riskiest  of  all  markets,  Audiences. 
They  are  attuned  to  the  veriest  straw  in  the  wind.  They  are 
sensitive  to  a  just-sown  weariness,  a  germinating  fancy, 
before  the  public  becomes  self-conscious.  They  scent  the 
smell  of  prosperity,  the  smell  of  failure,  as  a  beagle  scents 
distant  game.  They  pluck  this  one  forward,  they  set  that 
one  back.  They  execute  a  business  of  infinite  detail  on  the 
most  gigantic  scale.  Their  ears  are  open  to  the  most  fantas- 
tic enterprises.  They  make  a  trade  out  of  Fairyland. 
Nothing  is  too  daring,  nothing  too  vast,  nothing  too  small. 
There  is  only  one  essential.  There  must  be  money  in  it. 
They  have  imagination,  acuteness,  intelligence.  In  a  word, 
they  are  Beak  and  Blumenthein. 

Now  you  are  in  a  position  to  be  sufficiently  impressed  by 
the  entrance  of  Joseph  Beak  into  Madame  Gaudenzio's 
Exchange.  If  you  are  not  impressed,  you  will  prove  an 
exception  to  the  rule.  The  chief  of  a  hundred  or  more 
"enterprises,"  a  thousand  or  more  employes  from  star 
actor  down  to  call-boy,  the  dispenser  of  millions  of  money 
—  Joseph  Beak  was  an  encyclopedia  of  opportunity,  a 


272      .  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

mine  of  theatrical  "jobs,"  if  he  could  only  be  mined. 
He  was  a  neighbor  of  Madame  Gaudenzio's  in  the  Rotter- 
dam Building. 

Joseph  Beak  was  a  quiet  middle-aged  man  whose 
Hebraic  lineage  showed  in  a  modified  and  almost  spiritual- 
ized strain.  His  blonde  features  tended  to  a  ruddy  hue, 
his  voice  was  low,  his  eye  mild  and  musing,  —  but  steady, 
extraordinarily  steady.  Steadiness  was  the  predominating 
note  in  his  personality.  He  had  the  steady  eye,  the  low  and 
steady  voice,  the  steady  square  fingers.  He  seemed  to  carry 
within  himself  an  invisible  carpenter's  rule  by  which  he 
.  ruled  off  you  —  your  opinions  —  his  utterances,  your 
utterances,  his  conclusions.  His  employees  found  him 
agreeable  and  inflexible  to  a  mystifying  degree. 

Beak  and  Blumenthein  needed  a  child  actress  for  a 
certain  bit  in  "  The  Fairy  Prince. "  It  was  a  bit,  but  an 
important  bit.  The  role  of  child  actress  is,  as  all  mangers 
know,  a  difficult  one  to  fill.  This  particular  "bit"  had 
already  scored  several  failures  and  evoked  the  derision  of 
critics.  Beak  had  almost  decided  to  "  cut "  it,  when  Madame 
Gaudenzio  offered  to  produce  the  desired  material,  the 
child  of  a  retired  actress  friend. 

On  the  moment  of  Beak's  entrance,  Rue,  her  face  a-glow, 
her  hands  clasped,  turned  with  that  passionate  plea  on 
her  lips  and  met  the  mild  musing  eyes  of  Joseph  Beak. 

Madame  was  concluding  her  interview  with  Dr. 
Penrith. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  can  give  you  so  little  information, "  said 
she.  "  Miss  Field  was  well  known  in  the  profession  during 
the  few  years  she  remained  on  the  stage,  but  she  was 


THE  GAUDENZIO  AND  THE  BEAK       273 

reserved.  I  doubt  if  any  of  her  associates  know  her  where- 
abouts. " 

Madame  smiled  one-sidedly  as  if  there  were  something 
behind  which  she  knew  but  chose  not  to  dilate  upon.  As  they 
came  out  of  the  inner  room  they  caught  sight  of  Mr. 
Joseph  Beak  and  Madame  had  done  with  Dr.  Penrith. 
There  was  more  important  business  on  hand  with  this 
new-comer  and  potentate.  However,  Beak  was  the  one  man 
who  might  be  supposed  to  know  something  of  Angela 
Field's  present  life. 

The  potentate  moved  forward,  insinuating  himself 
courteously  and  displacing  Dr.  Penrith  at  the  Madame's 
side.  He  thought  he  had  opportunely  arrived  to  assist  at 
terminating  a  defunct  interview.  The  elderly  man  might 
be  a  book  agent  or  a  relative  from  the  country.  Beak  looked 
at  Rue  and  spoke  directly  to  the  point. 

"  She  is  just  the  stuff.  She  will  not  merely  take  the  part 
but  make  it." 

The  celerity  of  Beak's  judgment  was  famous  and  he 
seldom  erred.  Madame,  in  a  little  confusion,  followed  Beak's 
eyes  and  saw  that  he  referred  to  Rue,  whose  illuminated 
profile  brightened  the  window. 

"You  are  mistaken,  Mr.  Beak.  The  child  I  have  sent 
for  will  come  in  an  hour.  The  child  there  is  this  gentle- 
man's —  granddaughter,  I  believe. "  She  glided  off 
delicately  upon  the  assumption. 

"Mr.  Beak,  Dr.  Penrith,  Miss  Field's  father." 

Her  eagle  eyes  scanned  the  after-effect  of  Miss  Field's 
name. 

"  He  was  a  personage,  after  all, "  murmured  to  themselves 


274  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

the  attendant  satellites  of  the  office,  "  thus  to  be  introduced 

to  the  great  Beak,  omnipotent  dispenser  of  jobs. " 

To  Dr.  Penrith  the  name  Beak  was  merely  a  trifling 
collocation  of  letters. 

Beak's  steady  eye  made  swift  note  of  the  grandfather, 
Angela's  father,  the  anxious  cheeks,  the  eager  eye,  the 
attenuated  frame,  the  worn  clothes,  the  pride,  the  fierceness, 
the  sadness.  Nothing  could  have  exceeded  the  respect,  the 
solemn  respect,  of  Beak's  manner. 

Madame  Gaudenzio  dared  not  scrutinize  Beak's  face 
as  closely  as  she  wished.  The  steady  features  of  the  man 
did  not  flinch,  though  the  reddish  beard  may  have  conceal- 
ed a  possible  paling  of  the  cheek.  The  pupils  of  his  eyes 
underwent  a  curious  dilation  and  contraction,  a  sign  of 
excitement  that  light-colored  eyes  betray. 

"Dr.  Penrith,"  said  Beak,  "may  I  presume  upon  this 
casual  introduction  and  ask  for  a  brief  interview.  It  will 
be,  I  assure  you,  for  our  mutual  advantage. " 

His  distinct  pronunciation  of  Dr.  Penrith's  name  was 
in  itself  homage  and  contrasted  with  Madame's  tentative 
handling  of  it. 

Grandfather,  Rue  and  Mr.  Beak  left  the  Gaudenzio 
office  as  one  party. 

"  But,  Mr.  Beak,  when  the  child  arrives  —  the  other 
child  —  "  questioned  Madame,  more  with  a  shrewd 
desire  for  Beak's  answer  than  for  any  information. 

"  That  matter  can  wait, "  replied  the  potentate  dryly. 


XXX 

A  POLITE  MAN 

MESSENGER  boys  came  and  went  with  telegrams, 
the  negro  porter  padded  in  and  out,  names 
were  announced  and  denied,  batches  of  mail  were 
laid  upon  the  desk,  type-written  reports  submitted,  the 
telephone  rang  on  insistent  business,  associates  murmured 
brief  hints  and  insinuated  bits  of  the  current  transaction 
that  would  not  brook  delay.  These  things  were  interludes 
in  the  talk  between  Joseph  Beak  and  Justinian  Penrith. 
Mr.  Beak's  mild  steady  eye  traveled  from  grandfather  to 
child,  from  child  to  grandfather.  The  selection  of  their 
chairs,  the  disposal  of  the  window-blind,  the  glasses  of 
apollinaris,  all  these  items  on  behalf  of  his  visitors  were 
of  infinite  concern  to  Mr.  Beak.  The  springs  of  contact 
were  so  gently  oiled  that  the  most  refractory  wheels  ran 
smoothly. 

"  As  perhaps  Madame  Gaudenzio  told  you, "  said  Beak, 
"  your  daughter  was  for  some  time  a  member  of  one  of  my 
companies.  A  year  ago,  to  the  keen  regret  of  her  m  nager 
and  associates,  she  withdrew. " 

His  measured  tone  sounded  like  a  rehearsed  icsson. 
Justinian  had  noticed  before  they  left  the  Gaudenzio  office 
the  dilation  and  contraction  of  the  man's  eyes,  which  not 
even  the  most  practised  can  control,  but  observant  as  he 

275 


276  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

was,  he  could  detect  nothing  below  that  measured  reci- 
tative. 

Beak  was  silent,  waiting  to  hear  what  Dr.  Penrith  might 
say.  He  did  not  yet  know  the  old  man's  motive  in  seeking 
this  interview.  He  had  been  about  to  ask  his  own  question 
but  decided  to  let  the  other  take  the  initiative.  Rue  was 
allowed  to  retire  to  a  window-embrasure  and  was  looking 
over  a  theatrical  album.  Justinian  hesitated  a  moment, 
wondering  how  he  should  approach  the  simple  question 
that  lay  in  his  mind.  "  Where  is  Miss  Field  now  ?  " 

The  same  question  and  the  same  hesitation  haunted  the 
mind  of  the  opposite  person. 

Beak  began  again :  "  If  you  come  to  me  for  advice  as  to 
Miss  Penrith's  best  course,  my  advice  is  —  decidedly, 
that  her  stage  career  should  be  continued.  She  has  great 
talent. " 

Justinian's  answer  was  quick  and  stern.  "I  ask  no  ad- 
vice from  you  as  to  my  daughter's  stage  career.  I  have  no 
wish  for  her  to  continue  in  a  course  that,  without  my 
knowledge,  she  began. " 

"Ah?" 

Beak's  mild  interrogatory  implied  that  he  was  grateful 
for  this  autobiographical  revelation. 

"  Miss  Penrith  is  not  —  ill,  I  trust  ? "  continued  the 
smooth,  deferential  voice. 

Justinian  met  him  squarely,  eye  to  eye. 

"  I  do  not  known  where  my  daughter  is.  That  is  what  I 
come  to  find  out  from  you. " 

Beak  returned  Justinian's  gaze,  frankness  for  frankness. 

"  It  is  also  what  I  hoped  to  find  out  from  you,  Dr.  Penrith." 


A  POLITE  MAN  277 

There  was  the  situation  between  them.  The  two  men 
proceeded  to  speak  of  the  past,  exchanging  their  different 
portions  of  Danae's  history,  each  with  reservations.  And 
these  reservations  were  just  what  was  needed  to  elucidate 
an  otherwise  mystifying  narrative. 

If  Justinian  had  known  better  his  interlocutor's  absorb- 
ing profession  and  the  magnitude  of  his  interests  he  would 
have  understood  more  clearly  how  powerful  must  have 
been  the  motives  that  induced  so  prolonged  a  conversation. 
As  it  was,  he  noted  the  impatience  with  which  all  interrup- 
tions were  waived  aside. 

"  I  do  not  need  to  justify  my  own  quest,  Mr.  Beak,  but 
may  I  ask  the  cause  of  your  interest  ?  " 

"A  purely  professional  one,"  said  he  quickly,  almost 
too  quickly,  as  if  the  question  had  been  expected  and  the 
answer  prepared.  "There  is  always  a  demand  for  good 
actresses  and  an  over-supply  of  incompetent  ones.  Angela 
Field,  as  she  was  known  to  us,  filled  certain  difficult  roles 
that  have  been  hard  to  replace. " 

Dr.  Penrith  remembered  Madame  Gaudenzio's  veiled 
remark:  "A  certain  manager  seemed  to  find  available 
parts  for  your  daughter  when  others  could  not. " 

He  connected  this  allusion  with  Beak.  Therefore,  to 
Beak's  last  remark  he  replied : 

"  So  I  have  understood  from  other  sources. " 

"  It  is  true, "  said  Beak  calmly,  "  I  have  the  faculty  of 
fitting  actor  to  part,  part  to  actor,  of  seeing  possibilities 
that  with  other  managers  go  to  waste.  It  is  a  main  cause  of 
theatrical  success. " 

Justinian  rose  to  go,  thankful  for  several  things.  Danae's 


278  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

life  as  revealed  to  him  by  Madame  Gaudenzio  and  Mr. 
Beak  may  not  have  followed  such  lines  as  he  would  approve, 
but  it  had  commanded  their  consideration.  There  existed 
among  these  folk  a  well-organized  world  of  which  he  had 
known  nothing. 

"I  am  indebted  to  you,  Mr.  Beak,  for  your  time  and 
information. " 

"I  can  assure  you  that  we  have  ourselves  made 
many  efforts  to  trace  her.  If  you  should  succeed  in 
your  search  will  you  do  me  the  favor  of  communicating 
with  me?" 

A  simple  enough  request,  scarcely  to  be  refused.  Beak 
filled  up  the  moment's  hesitation. 

"  I,  in  turn,  will  renew  my  efforts.  I  have  many  agencies 
which  may  be  set  to  work. " 

Again  he  paused,  demanding  an  answer  to  his  previous 
question. 

A  tensity  in  the  human  atmosphere  made  Justinian 
giddy. 

"  Let  us  sit  down  again  for  a  moment, "  said  Beak.  He 
rang  for  fresh  water  and  sipped  a  little  from  his  own  luke- 
warm glass.  "  Does  the  little  girl  sing  ?  " 

"  My  —  ward  ?  She  cannot  sing  a  note.  " 

"Why,  Grandfather!"  cried  Rue  reproachfully,  "You 
know  how  nicely  I  sang  that  song  when  we  were  out  driving 
with  Augustus. " 

"Can  you  sing  it  here?"  asked  Mr.  Beak,  turning  a 
pair  of  beaming  eyes  on  Rue. 

Rue  thought  a  minute  and  then  in  a  requiem-like  re- 
citative chanted  her  improvisation. 


A  POLITE  MAN  279 

Augustus,  get  right  along,  please, 
Like  a  nice  little,  good  little  horse. 

Shake  your  mane  all  you  want  to,  but  don't 

stumble  on  your  knees, 
For  ifs  almost  supper-time,  of  course. 

"I  sang  like  that  when  we  came  to  Mr.  Larrabee's 
box-hedge  and  it  was  sunset.  Augustus  is  our  horse  that 
we  borrow  from  Mr.  Dewsnap  and  such  a  pleasant  little 
horse,  though  he  is  rather  tiresome  sometimes  because  he 
drinks  so  very,  very  slowly. " 

Mr.  Beak  regarded  Rue  kindly,  meditatively,  seeing 
some  one  else's  forehead  and  eyebrows. 

"  Thank  you.  Very  prettily  done, "  he  said. 

Rue,  pleased  that  in  Mr.  Beak  she  had  found  a  support- 
er, retired  to  her  album. 

"Mr.  Beak  might  be  a  valuable  coadjutor,"  thought 
Dr.  Penrith,  "  if  only  it  were  possible  to  get  at  his  actual 
motives. " 

He  spoke  aloud. 

"Your  interest  on  my  behalf  is  kind,  and  I  most  cer- 
tainly shall  let  you  know  if  I  gain  any  knowledge  of 
Danae. " 

"  Your  home  is  —  " 

"  In  a  country  village  up-state.  " 

"  And  you  would  take  Danae  home  with  you  —  there  ?  " 

The  almost  imperceptible  shadings  of  Mr.  Beak's  voice 
shaded  to  strokes  of  surprise  on  Danae  and  there. 

"  I  should  use  every  endeavor  in  my  power,  Mr.  Beak, 
so  to  do  and  to  wean  her  from  this  life. " 

"  You  would  not  add  your  voice  to  my  arguments  —  the 
large  salary  —  and  —  the  —  uh  —  honor  - 


280  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Beak  was  going  much  further  than  he  had  intended,  but 
he  had  a  definite  motive. 

"  Honor !  There  is  none  involved  in  what  this  theatrical 
flim-flam  offers.  The  money  ?  That,  Mr.  Beak,  I  am  well- 
used  to  doing  without. "  He  spoke  wearily. 

Mr.  Beak  was  the  fine  flower  of  courtesy  as  he  accom- 
panied his  guests  to  the  door. 

"I  shall,  as  I  said,  renew  my  efforts.  They  will  be 
entirely  on  your  behalf,  Dr.  Penrith,  as  your  interests  and 
mine  in  the  matter  are  opposed.  I  need  not  say  that  you 
have  my  sympathy.  You  will  find  a  cab  waiting  for  you 
at  the  curb  below.  Nothing  at  all,  I  assure  you.  It  is  the 
least  I  can  do  for  you  under  the  circumstances.  I  had  the 
highest  esteem  for  your  daughter. " 

And  so  the  well-oiled  interview,  with  scarcely  a  break 
or  a  jar,  rolled  to  a  gentle  standstill. 

"  What  a  very  polite  man  that  Mr.  Beak  is, "  said  Rue  to 
Grandfather  as  they  bowled  down  Fifth  Avenue  toward 
Washington  Square.  "  But  I  thought  he  bent  over  almost 
too  much  in  saying  good-by,  didn't  you,  Grandfather?" 

Grandfather  was  absorbed  and  did  not  asnwer.  He  had 
just  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  familiar  face  on  the  street. 
Bastable  had  passed  him  briskly  and  entered  the  Rotter- 
dam Building.  The  sight  of  that  man  in  that  place  suggested 
a  new  idea  to  Grandfather,  one  that  might  prove  valuable. 


XXXI 
THE  WOOING  O'T 

FREDERICK  invited  Rue  and  her  grandfather 
to  lunch  with  him  in  the  Greenwich  house. 
The  luncheon  he  had  ordered  was  specially 
designed  to  please  the  appetite  of  a  country-bred  child. 
In  the  center  of  the  polished  table  was  a  tall  glass  vase  of 
American  Beauty  roses,  heavy,  bluish-crimson  and  magnifi- 
cently bowing  over  their  own  stems.  There  was  iced  lemon- 
ade, a  strawberry  floating  a-top,  and  four  succulent  little 
straws  waiting  to  be  sucked ;  small  biscuit,  pinky -brown,  that 
broke  open  flakily  like  pie-crust ;  a  pot  of  steaming  chocolate, 
snowy  patties  of  Dutch  cheese  in  a  golden  nest  of  lettuce. 
For  the  substantial  appetite  there  was  beefsteak  cut  and 
broiled  as  the  epicure  demands,  and  new  potatoes,  sleek  and 
rose-yellow.  On  a  side  table  Rue's  quick  eyes  observed  little 
green  bowls  of  strawberries  liberally  heaped  with  sugar, 
and  iced  cakes  that  would  melt  in  the  mouth  like  jelly. 
Droll,  who  had  lived  in  three  continents  and  eaten  food 
according  to  the  traditions  of  twice  as  many  races,  believed 
that  the  simplest  and  plainest  materials  exquisitely  pre- 
pared are  the  acme  of  good  eating.  To  cap  the  whole, 
there  was  to  be  ice-cream  in  a  variety  of  remotely  zoologi- 
cal shapes,  constructed  according  to  a  caterer's  notions  of 
ornithology.  Shapes  that  a  child  would  linger  over  and 

281 


282  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

finally  demolish,  claw,  head  and  cold  creamy  wing,  while  a 
half  sense  of  pity  would  tinge  the  epicurean  pleasure. 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  little  figure  in  the  Constantinople 
cloak  stood  at  the  door  of  Frederick  Droll's  apartment,  and 
a  pair  of  wondering  eyes  caught  their  first  glimpse  of  the 
heavy  roses  and  the  bedewed  lemonade  glasses.  What 
Justinian  first  saw  was  two  steamer-trunks,  the  lids  open. 
The  contents  of  one  were  feminine  in  character,  with 
fluffs  and  frills  that  foamed  over  the  edge.  A  child's 
scarlet  cloak  and  a  cap  with  a  feather  hung  against  the 
wall.  Cloak  and  cap  still  bore  the  shop-tags. 

"  So  as  to  be  quite  in  readiness, "  said  Droll.  With  a 
smile  half-grim,  half-humorous,  he  followed  the  direction 
of  Justinian's  glance. 

"You  were  not  lacking  in  forethought,"  remarked 
Justinian  mildly. 

**  The  lack  has  never  been  charged  against  me.  Witness 
our  appointment  made  on  the  other  side  of  the  ocean, 
kept  to  the  minute. " 

The  luncheon  passed  off  with  admirable  gaiety.  There 
was  graceful  small  talk  between  the  two  men  and  decorous 
silence  from  Rue.  It  was  hardly  noticeable  that  the  younger 
man  controlled  the  direction  of  converse  with  as  skilful 
a  touch  as  ever  a  sailor  put  to  the  rudder  in  the  midst  of 
choppy  seas.  As  Desdemona  was  charmed  by  the  Moor's 
modestly  recounted  deeds  of  prowess,  so  were  Rue's  ears 
charmed  by  the  nameless  magic  of  a  different  life  in  which 
the  young  man  had  participated.  He  and  Grandfather 
discussed  foreign  lands,  places  they  both  had  seen,  but  the 
talk  was  unlike  the  discussions  she  had  often  heard  under 


THE  WOOING  O'T  283 

the  buttonball-tree  at  Penrith  House.  Endless  and  slum- 
brous had  been  those  discussions,  waged  over  the  site  of 
Kadesh  Barnea  or  of  ancient  Adullam,  wordy  battles 
as  like  the  one  to  the  other  as  those  fierce  rhythmical  tilts 
of  Spencer's  redoubtable  knights  or  the  hexameter  onsets 
of  Homer's  raging  heroes.  Droll,  as  he  spoke,  constantly 
turned  to  Rue  and  the  strange  brown  eyes  filled  her  soul 
with  yearning.  He  described  many  a  storied  river  as  he 
had  seen  it  from  his  drifting  canoe,  many  a  bay  with  the 
white  sail  of  his  yacht  swelling  to  the  breeze.  Rue  almost 
heard  those  "Murmuring  rivers  by  whose  falls  melodious 
birds  sing  madrigals. "  She  peered  wistfully  through 
"magic  casements  opening  on  the  foam  of  faery  seas 
forlorn." 

Grandfather  played  into  Droll's  hands  as  if  he  had  sat 
across  the  cards  from  him  during  long  years  of  partnership. 
The  young  man  had  stories  to  tell,  always  short,  often 
amusing,  invariably  charming.  Original  experiences  of  the 
kind  that  does  not  happen  to  commonplace  people,  re- 
vealing by  a  lightning  flash  the  personality  of  the  partici- 
pant. It  was  a  quaint  and  kindly  personality  that  was 
revealed,  one  that  loved  little  children  and  felt  kindred- 
ship  between  himself  and  the  beast.  His  calm  eyes  rested 
on  Rue  and  contained  no  teasing  twinkle  or  hint  of  curious 
scrutiny.  Rue,  poising  a  strawberry  on  her  fork,  forgot 
its  destination  in  the  delight  of  crossing  the  Rosegg  glacier 
with  Frederick  by  her  side.  The  blue-green  of  Swiss  lakes, 
the  narcissus-fields  of  Les  Avants,  the  crumbling  towers 
of  Roman  hill-towns,  the  tinkle  of  sheep-bells,  the  fragrance 
of  grapes  drying  in  the  sun  in  Savoyard  vineyards!  Then, 


284  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

oh,  the  music  and  revelry  of  rustic  feasters  in  festi  di 
canesti  or  of  Swiss  vine-gatherers,  frolicsome  as  the  old 
heathen  dancers  from  whom  they  were  derived. 

"  When  shall  we  journey  to  those  lovely  places,  Grand- 
father ?  "  asked  Rue  wistfully. 

"  At  two  o'clock,  dear, "  he  answered,  with  a  return  to 
the  pleasant  irony  of  Joppa  days. 

Rue  and  Justine  were  fond  of  inquiring  into  the  exact 
chronology  of  noted  or  interesting  events,  past  or  to  come. 
For  instance,  at  what  hour  in  the  day  did  Eve  eat  the  apple  ? 
Just  when  did  Grandfather's  beard  begin  to  grow?  On 
what  day  of  the  week  does  the  first  spring  robin  arrive? 
When  did  Noah's  Ark  land  on  Mount  Ararat,  morning, 
noon  or  night  ? 

If  Aunt  Serena  should  remark  to  Grandfather,  sotto 
voce  at  the  dinner-table,  "We  must  roast  some  chestnuts 
for  the  children,  Justinian. " 

At  once  would  there  be  an  eager  chorus,  "When  shall 
we  do  it,  Grandfather  ?  " 

To  all  such  persistent  searchers  after  more  accurate 
data  would  Grandfather  answer  gravely: 

"At  two  o'clock." 

It  would  seem  that  all  the  major  part  of  the  noteworthy 
episodes  in  the  world's  history  had  come  to  pass  at  the 
fateful  hour  of  two  o'clock.  Yet  somehow,  as  far  as  Rue 
could  remember,  nothing  in  her  own  life  ever  happened 
at  that  hour.  Instead  of  being  prolific  of  momentous  events 
it  was  of  a  deadly  barrenness.  It  was  the  hour  when  Grand- 
father took  his  nap  and  the  house  must  be  hushed  to  a 
tomb-like  calm. 


THE  WOOING  O'T  285 

Once  Rue  had  perched  herself  on  one  of  the  tall  stone 
gate-posts  that  guarded  the  entrance  to  the  grassy  lane 
and  from  this  coign  of  vantage  she  had  determined  to 
watch  the  course  of  events  at  that  fateful  hour  of  two. 
But  nothing  really  happened.  Bees  drumbled  heavily  in 
the  apple-blossoms.  She  could  hear  the  faint  whetting 
of  a  scythe  and  once  a  cicada  shrilled  sleepily.  That 
was  all. 

"  Cousin  Frederick, "  said  Rue  earnestly,  "  will  you  go  to 
Italy  with  us  at  two  o'clock  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Rue,  if  we  can  find  you  a  mother  and  she  will  go, 
too." 

"There  is  one  place  I  would  like  to  visit  and  that  is 
Vallombrosa.  It  is  golden  and  leafy  there  and  so  calm  that 
no  one  would  ever  be  afraid.  I  know  another  person  who 
would  like  to  visit  Vallombrosa. " 

"Who  is  it,  dear?" 

"  It  is  a  little  boy  named  Lillo  —  I  have  not  seen 
him  for  a  long,  long  time.  I  told  him  about  the  brooks 
and  the  leaves  and  he  said  he  would  take  me  there  some 
day." 

By  and  by  Rue  nodded  over  Cousin  Frederick's  pictures 
of  foreign  countries  and  now  she  was  fast  asleep,  curled 
up  on  the  Baghdad  cushions  of  the  sofa. 

"  There  is  one  place  you  did  not  picture  to  her, "  said 
Justinian,  "the  pink  villa  on  Lake  Como,  with  the  tea- 
roses  over  the  wall  and  the  statue  of  the  laughing  baby 
between  the  cypresses. " 

"That  also  waits  for  us.  The  cypresses  and  the 
darting  lizards,  the  oleanders,  the  snow  mountains  and 


286  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

the  laughing  baby.  Danae  shall  go  with  us.  Danae  and 
Rue  together. " 

"My  dear  boy,  dear  visionary-    '   began   Justinian. 

He  stopped.  There  was  a  dream  in  Frederick's  hungry 
eyes  he  would  not  destroy. 


XXXII 
THE  PLACE  OF  WHISPERERS 

THERE  were  several  maiden  ladies  in  the  house  at 
Lafayette  Place.  A  tiny  high-browed  editor  on  a 
church  paper;  a  thin,  falcon-faced  librarian,  and 
a  lady  who  wore  her  hair  in  deep  scallops  like  pictures  of 
"  restored  "  tresses.  She  was  Mrs.  Somebody,  but  the  hus- 
band never  appeared.  It  was  surmised  by  the  other  boarders 
that  she  was  neither  a  widow  nor  a  divorcee  and  therefore 
she  was  tacitly  relegated  to  that  hazy  metropolitan  stratum 
to  which  no  one  has  ever  affixed  a  suitable  nomenclature. 
Mrs.  Somebody  was  particularly  kind  to  Rue  and  under 
her  perfumed  and  pompadoured  guardianship,  Rue  was 
allowed  to  make  a  little  swallow-flight  into  cosmopolitan 
life. 

There  was  a  stuffed  bear  on  his  haunches  before  a 
furrier's  upper  window.  He  was  a  tired-looking  bear, 
with  dusty  gaping  mouth  and  small  eyes  of  a  feverish  hue. 
Rue  wondered  whether  he  stood  there  both  winter  and 
summer  and  whether  he  was  blanketed  on  the  bitterest 
winter  nights.  For  though  an  animal  be  stuffed  and  evident- 
ly unalive,  he  is  not  exactly  dead,  and  would  appreciate 
what  Grandfather  called  the  "administration  of  creature 
comforts."  Rue  could  not  help  feeling  sorry  for  this  bear. 

On  another  excursion  she  had  seen  an  Indian  of  martial 

287 


288  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

aspect  standing  before  a  shop  door.  He  was  terrifying, 
but  as  one  came  nearer,  one  observed  that  he  was  not 
flesh  and  blood.  He  had  an  amalgam  of  metal  in  his  con- 
stitution, as  indeed  the  history  books  led  one  to  believe, 
with  their  allusions  to  the  "  copper  skins." 

The  streets  were  full  of  people  hurrying  hither  and 
thither.  It  was  a  mystery  where  they  all  came  from  and 
whither  they  were  going,  and  why  they  never  stopped  to 
speak  to  each  other.  There  had  been  two  occasions  in 
Joppa  when  the  whole  village  had  turned  out  and  had 
presented  in  miniature  a  scene  like  this  Broadway  pano- 
rama. Once  was  when  the  Dancing  Bear  came  through 
from  the  County  Fair  at  Canaan,  caged  up  in  a  big  wagon 
with  a  monkey  and  a  hyena.  There  had  been  a  change 
of  horses  made  at  Joppa  and  the  new  relay  had  refused 
to  back  into  the  shafts.  Great  excitement  prevailed. 
All  the  men  in  the  village  gathered  to  discuss  the  situa- 
tion while  the  women  stood  huddled  on  their  porches. 
The  hyena  laughed,  the  bear  rattled  his  chain;  the  dis- 
obedient horses  reared  and  snorted  and  kicked  their  hind 
legs.  By  great  good  fortune  Rue  had  been  in  the  village 
at  this  time,  and  stood  on  Mrs.  Gideon's  piazza,  from 
which  point  she  commanded  a  splendid  view  of  the  spec- 
tacle. At  first  she  had  been  indignant  with  the  contumac- 
ious horses,  but  Mr.  Larrabee  (who  was  rheumatic  and 
therefore  had  not  joined  the  other  men  in  the  village  square) 
explained  that  "hosses  is  awful  wise  and  they  ketch  the 
smell  of  them  wild  critters  and  they  won't  stand  it  nohow 
to  be  hooked  up  in  front  of  such  doin's. "  Rue  recanted  and 
instantly  took  the  part  of  the  "  wise  hosses. "  Even  now,  the 


THE  PLACE  OF  WHISPERERS  289 

memory  of  the  "  smell  of  them  wild  critters  "  was  sufficient 
to  make  a  shudder  run  along  her  spine. 

The  other  occasion  when  Joppa  had  gathered  together 
a  multitude  was  when  the  mill-dam  broke  loose.  Every 
man,  woman  and  child  in  the  village  had  contributed  his 
or  her  labors  to  fill  up  the  destructive  breach.  What  a  mad, 
glad  day  that  was.  It  might  be  that  here  in  New  York  a 
coincidence  of  two  such  nuclei  of  excitement  had  produced 
the  multitude.  Perhaps  up  Broadway  a  caged  wagon  of 
wild  beasts  and  down  Broadway  a  broken  mill-dam. 

There  were  street-cars  black  with  people,  who  seemed 
to  find  these  clanging  itineraries  their  perpetual  occupation. 
The  interior  of  the  cars  was  jammed  thick  with  them,  they 
bulged  out  at  both  ends,  and  hung  precariously  in  glutinous 
swarms  to  the  outer  steps. 

Thus  had  Rue  seen  the  furry  caterpillars  cling  together 
in  gregarious  clusters  on  their  apple-tree  nests,  when  she 
followed  in  the  destroying  footsteps  of  Mr.  Boscoway,  he 
armed  with  his  flaming  pole.  Also  in  mid-air  did  trains  hiss 
by,  loaded  caterpillar  fashion,  with  black  and  clinging 
humanity.  How  they  would  drop  off  and  shrivel  up  at  the 
touch  of  some  flaming  pole,  even  taller  than  any  ever 
wielded  by  Mr.  Boscoway.  It  was  a  cruel  thought,  scarcely 
to  be  entertained  by  a  tender  little  girl. 

Once,  when  Grandfather  did  not  come  home  as  early  as 
usual,  Rue  had  ventured  forth  to  meet  him  and  by  some 
torturous  means  or  other,  she  reached  the  Broadway 
corner,  only  a  short  distance  from  the  Lafayette  Place 
house.  There  she  had  heard  a  horrifying  shout,  couched 
in  apparently  a  savage  and  foreign  tongue.  It  ran  like  this: 


290  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  Egg-strah !  egg-strah !  Egg !  Aw-ful !  Akk ! " 

The  remainder  of  the  blood-curdling  cry  was  blotted 
out  in  a  twin  roar  that  hurtled  from  the  other  side  of  the 
street.  Finally  Rue,  trembling  with  terror,  perceived  that 
these  unknown  and  inarticulate  warnings  proceeded  from 
the  open  mouths  of  two  tattered  men,  who  bore  each  under 
his  arm,  a  stack  of  damp,  hugely  lettered  newspapers. 

Their  square  open  mouths  and  distended  eyes  reminded 
Rue  of  a  bodiless  sculptured  face  she  had  seen  on  the  wall  at 
the  Metropolitan  Museum.  Grandfather  had  said  it  was  a 
Gargoyle,  and  Rue  had  thought  that  the  Gargoyles  (prob- 
ably an  Irish  name)  must  have  been  an  ill-featured 
family. 

These  Broadway  Gargoyles  were  evidently  shouting 
out,  for  the  whole  doomed  city  to  hear,  warning  of  some 
fearful  catastrophe,  more  awful  than  any  that  in  Bible  days 
was  meted  out  to  Sodom  or  Gomorrah.  People  hurried 
hither  and  thither  and  the  street-car  people  clanged  by,  not 
one  heeding  those  two  ragged  prophets  of  doom,  who, 
like  Jonah  of  old,  lifted  up  their  voices  to  warn  an  insensate 
city.  , 

Just  then,  Grandfather  alighted  from  a  yellow  car  and 
took  Rue  safely  home,  and  she  never  knew  the  nature  of  the 
doom  that  hovered  on  that  particular  day. 

It  is  easy  to  get  lost  from  Lafayette  Place  as  a  starting 
point.  You  have  only  to  commit  the  inadvertence  of  turning 
a  deceptive  wrong  turn,  and  lo!  the  face  of  the  world  has 
changed.  Vanished  is  the  long  somber  building  with  its 
pair  of  steps  formally  facing  each  other.  Vanished  are  the 
columned  houses,  gray  and  gloomy.  Here  are  other  houses, 


THE  PLACE  OF  WHISPERERS  291 

columnless,  and  shop  windows  with  gentlemen's  clothes  in 
them.  The  cars  are  a  different  color  and  go  in  many  direc- 
tions. Small  boys  dart  recklessly  across  the  glittering  car- 
tracks.  Ladies  hold  up  their  skirts  and  wiggle  a  finger 
toward  the  conductor.  Most  fascinating  of  all  is  the  direction 
wherein  lieth  Broadway,  a  Way  the  most  adventurous  in 
the  whole  world. 

Several  times  did  Rue  seek  to  wander  about  this  world, 
and,  losing  herself,  was  conveyed  to  her  proper  dwelling 
by  a  friendly  lady  or  a  big  policeman.  As  a  result  of  these 
bewilderments,  Grandfather  issued  the  command  that  she 
must  not  turn  any  corner  in  the  Place.  Only  from  corner  to 
corner  could  she  go,  and  at  those  points  must  she  curb 
her  wander-lust. 

To-day  Rue's  cabined  spirit  fretted.  Her  limbs  were 
rusting  with  a  vile  repose.  She  determined  to  break  the 
monotony  of  her  life  by  ascending  the  double  flight  of 
steps.  She  would  enter  the  great  brown  building.  She  would 
pluck  the  heart  out  of  its  mystery. 

A  small  girl  in  a  white  chip  hat,  a  pink  cotton  frock  and 
with  a  mass  of  chestnut  hair  rippling  around  a  sunburned 
face,  timidly  climbed  one  side  of  the  double  stairway.  A 
badged  and  uniformed  gentleman  regarded  her  smilingly. 
Rue  shook  hands  with  him  —  he  was  a  little  dull  at  first  in 
grasping  her  polite  intention  —  and  secured  his  permission 
to  visit  the  "  up-stairs  of  his  big  house. " 

There  were  a  number  of  other  visitors  in  the  vast  book- 
lined  chamber  and  an  extraordinarily  subdued  atmosphere 
pervaded  the  place,  as  if  something  dreadful  had  happened 
or  was  about  to  happen.  Everybody  whispered.  Three 


292  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

meek  individuals  awaited  sentence  before  a  Bar  of  Justice, 
behind  which  in  a  sacred  enclosure,  gray-whiskered 
patriarchs  stood.  Above,  far  above  her  head  were  dusky 
galleries,  along  which  flitted  nimble  and  noiseless  messen- 
gers. 

Now  and  again  some  deep  guttural  sound  was  uttered 
behind  the  Bar  of  Justice,  at  which  a  solemn  boy  strode 
hither  and  thither,  bowed  beneath  a  burden  of  books.  It 
was  a  good  deal  like  the  Judgment  Day,  and  those  old  men 
behind  the  bar  resembled  the  pictures  of  Moses  and  Aaron 
on  her  Golden  Text  cards.  But  she  decided  that  this  was  not 
the  Judgment  Day,  although  the  histories  of  all  the  sins 
of  all  the  lives  of  all  the  people  in  this  world  might  easily  be 
inscribed  in  the  countless  books  that  gloomed  above  the 
mysterious  galleries.  The  reminder  of  the  Judgment  Day 
made  Rue  shudder.  She  thought  of  the  roster  of  her  mis- 
deeds, a  roster  long  and  black  that  was  in  the  Judgment 
Day  books  inscribed.  They  were  probably  arranged  in 
alphabetical  order  like  the  Sacklo  .'-Peter.  A-Ara;  Arah- 
Bee;  Beh-Bro;  Bro-Chah;  Chah-Fog;  Fon-Hay,  and  then 
after  a  little,  Rud-Scro,  under  which  sinister  appelation  her 
own  black  life  would  be  unsparingly  chronicled.  She  was 
sorry  that  even  this  morning,  she  had  gone  seven  steps 
around  the  corner  to  where  the  pink-cheeked  rigid  gentle- 
man stood  in  the  window.  She  did  not  think  he  was  alive 
but  she  was  never  sure,  because  some  days  he  seemed  to 
have  chosen  a  different  position.  That  morning  she  had 
taken  seven  steps,  no  more,  no  less,  because  she  was  seven 
years  old.  The  justifying  connection  is  clear.  She  bowed 
and  winked  and  made  a  ridiculous  face  at  the  pink-cheeked 


THE  PLACE  OF  WHISPERERS  293 

gentleman  to  see  if  she  could  not  tempt  him  to  smile  or  to 
flutter  an  eyelash,  but  it  was  in  vain.  With  curled  mus- 
tache and  full  lustrous  eyes,  he  continued  to  stare  upon  her 
in  unmoved  propriety.  A  salesman  whisked  around  the 
gentlemanly  figure,  and  catching  one  of  Rue's  smiles,  threw 
her  a  kiss  in  saucy  return. 

This  unexpected  and  human  token  put  Rue's  heart  all  in 
a  flutter  and  sent  her  flying  back  within  her  lawful  beat. 

The  thought  of  the  Judgment  Day  made  her  regret 
exceedingly  those  disobedient  seven  steps.  She  would  like 
to  get  hold  of  the  proper  volume  in  that  resurrection  Sacklo  !- 
Peter,  to  find  her  misdeeds  and  erase  them,  even  though  it 
should  take  all  day  and  all  night.  Oh,  what  an  enormous 
rubber  eraser  would  waste  away  in  the  process ! 

The  visitors  in  this  somber  hall  were  eccentric  in  char- 
acter. There  was  a  wildly  redly-bearded  man,  collarless 
and  with  long  fingers  like  claws,  which  he  ran  up  and  down 
a  stack  of  cards  in  a  drawer  in  a  manner  suggesting  wolfish 
hunger.  There  was  a  humpback  man  with  a  pale  face, 
large  eyes  and  a  disagreeable  smile.  He  smiled  and  nodded 
his  head  disagreeably  as  he  turned  the  pages  of  his  book, 
as  if  the  innocent  pages  confirmed  him  in  some  malicious 
design.  There  was  a  frumpy  young  lady  with  ostrich 
feathers  hanging  all  around  her  face  and  a  shirt  waist  that 
made  poor  connections.  She  asked  a  boy  for  a  book  on  the 
making  of  artificial  flowers.  It  seemed  that  the  question 
was  a  foolish  one  for  she  was  remanded  to  a  case  full  of 
drawers,  before  which  she  stood  for  a  long  time  with  a 
crushed  air  and  a  sheepish  smile  upon  her  face.  An  attendant 
had  to  take  her  in  hand  and  instruct  her  in  the  proper  ritual. 


294  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

There  entered  a  tall  and  elegant  lady  with  an  audible 
frou-frou  of  skirts  that  caused  the  humpback  man  to 
smile  more  disagreeably  and  the  red-beard  to  cast  a  glassy 
frightened  stare.  Rue  wondered  if  this  swishing  and  purple- 
clad  queen  would  not  be  commanded  to  remove  those 
rippling  skirts  and  to  assume  a  limp  and  noiseless  garb 
such  as  others  wore.  And  where  would  she  make  the  change  ? 
Perhaps  in  one  of  those  latticed  galleries.  Rue  followed 
closely  in  her  wake  and  heard  her  speak  in  a  voice  that  was 
undismayed,  saying  to  Moses: 

"You  may  bring  me  all  your  books  on  the  Italian 
Renaissance. " 

"You  will  have  to  make  out  a  list,  madam.  Write  here 
your  name  and  address, "  said  Moses. 

"  I  am  much  pressed  for  time, "  said  the  lady  haughtily, 
"  so  will  you  kindly  bring  me  the  works  you  consider  best. 
I  must  have  my  essay  ready  by  to-morrow.  I  am  Mrs.  Ver- 
milyea  Schnapgoth,  the  president  of  the  Urania  Club. " 

Rue  was  not  sure  she  heard  the  name  right,  but  it 
sounded  like  Vermilion  Snapgoat.  Probably  in  remote  ages 
this  lady's  great  grandfather  owned  a  vermilion  goat  who 
snapped. 

Rue  could  see  that  Moses  was  much  impressed  by  the 
lady's  nomenclature  as  well  as  by  her  comprehensive 
historical  design. 

An  attendant  now  approached  Rue  with  a  question  on 
his  lips,  but  she  walked  away  in  a  determined  manner  as 
if  she  had  definite  business  in  mind.  She  chose  a  table  at 
the  far  end  of  the  room,  numbered  30,  with  a  green- 
shaded  electric  light  above  it.  On  the  other  side  of  the 


THE  PLACE  OF  WHISPERERS  295 

table  sat  a  woman  wearing  a  bonnet  wrapped  in  a  rusty 
veil,  who  bent  above  a  colony  of  brown  and  musty  tomes. 
The  woman's  appetite  was  voracious.  Ever  and  anon  a 
boy  came  up,  groaning  beneath  a  leaning  tower  of  books 
which  she  added  to  her  store.  The  rusty-veiled  woman  would 
look  up,  smile  a  cracked  smile,  pat  the  latest  increment, 
and  then  once  more  bury  her  nose  in  those  musty  pages. 
Her  nose  was  her  most  interesting  feature  and  Rue  found 
infinite  satisfaction  in  watching  its  lively  inflexions.  At 
regular  intervals  it  went  through  with  a  series  of  minute 
gymnastics.  It  began  with  several  rabbit-like  upward 
twitches,  then  followed  a  rotary  movement  merging  into  an 
indescribable  flourish.  The  conclusion  was  a  vigorous 
sideways  twist.  Rue  thought  the  nose  was  exceedingly 
clever  and  independent  to  arrange  for  itself  this  little  pri- 
vate Delsarte.  Meanwhile,  the  woman's  eyes  and  lips 
following  the  lines  of  the  huge  page  she  pored  over,  pur- 
sued in  a  learned  manner  their  different  occupation.  The 
eyes  darted  back  and  forth  and  the  lips  alternately 
puffed  themselves  out  and  gathered  themselves  together, 
like  the  top  of  one  of  Aunt  Serena's  drawing-string 
bags. 

Rue  forgot  herself  and  her  surroundings  and  when  the 
nose  made  an  unusually  nimble  series  of  rabbit-twitches 
she  burst  out  laughing.  At  this  silvery  ripple  from  the 
opposite  side  of  the  table,  the  woman  raised  her  eyes  and 
beheld  the  dimpling  face  of  the  seven-year-old  child.  She 
fixed  her  narrow  glance  severely  on  Rue,  and  addressed 
her  as  she  would  a  grown-up  person. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at,  Miss  ?  " 


296  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Rue  would  not  for  worlds  have  betrayed  to  its  owner 
that  lively  and  self-improving  little  nose,  so,  she  responded 
politely : 

"  I  was  just  thinking  what  a  very,  very  fast  reader  you 
must  be  to  read  so  many  books  in  one  day.  You  have  al- 
most a  bushel-basket  of  them  already. " 

The  woman's  mouth  made  a  downward  curve  of  disgust 
at  this  futile  interruption. 

"  You  had  better  call  for  your  own  books,  Miss, "  she  said 
scornfully,  "  and  not  waste  your  time  in  watching  mine. " 

This  was  a  valuable  suggestion  upon  which  Rue  proceed- 
ed to  act.  The  next  tune  that  a  boy  approached  her  neigh- 
borhood she  summoned  him  by  a  wave  of  her  hand  just  as 
she  had  seen  the  rusty-veiled  woman  do. 

"You  may  bring  me  some  books,  if  you  piease, "  she 
said. 

He  was  a  tall  boy,  with  a  pleasant,  care-worn  face. 

"What  books  do  you  want?"  he  asked,  and  his  tone, 
unlike  the  woman's,  distinctly  betokened  that  he  was 
addressing  a  child.  Rue  recognized  the  difference  and 
spoke  with  added  dignity,  though  with  a  great  and  yawning 
void  in  her  own  mind  as  to  what  subject  she  should  in- 
vestigate. 

"  You  may  bring  me  a  book  upon  —  little  boys, "  she 
concluded  in  a  matronly  fashion.  It  was  the  thought  of 
Lillo  springing  to  her  mind,  that  prompted  this  order. 
The  tall  boy  went  away  with  a  pleasant  smile  deepening 
upon  his  face.  Rue  rather  liked  him.  What  happened  next 
accounted  for  her  otherwise  unaccountable  inspiration,  for 
Lillo  himself  appeared,  taking  the  long  stairway  two  steps 


THE  PLACE  OF  WHISPERERS  297 

at  a  time  and  only  subduing  his  whistle  when  he  reached 
the  top  and  fell  under  the  influence  of  the  patriarchal 
gentlemen  and  the  solemn  scattered  whisperers.  When  she 
saw  him,  Rue  at  once  knew  that  she  had  known  he  was 
coming.  His  arrival  seemed  as  familiar  and  to  be  expected 
as  the  arrival  of  the  postman  at  Lafayette  Place. 

His  blouse  was  not  open  at  the  throat  nor  did  he  wear 
a  cap  with  a  tassel,  but  he  had  the  same  laughing  black- 
lashed  gray  eyes,  freckled  skin  and  alert  manliness.  After  a 
brief  consultation  with  a  drawer,  he  strode  cheerfully  down 
the  room  toward  a  large  table  that  was  fenced  away  from 
the  others.  He  would  encounter  Rue  on  his  way.  She  sat 
on  the  edge  of  her  chair  and  waited.  He  saw  her  and  his 
face  flooded  with  light. 

"  What  in  thunder  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  he  said  cordially. 
The  loudness  of  his  tone  drew  upon  him  a  severe  glance 
from  several  readers. 

"  I'm  just  —  amusing  myself, "  said  Rue.  She  hoped 
that  Lillo  would  not  take  it  that  she  was  too  industriously 
occupied  to  talk  with  him,  so  she  added :  "  I  have  plenty  of 
time  this  morning. " 

"Land,  so  have  I,"  answered  Lillo,  in  what  was  for 
him  a  painfully  constricted  voice  due  to  the  rigor  of  the 
place.  "But  my,  this  ain't  awful  'musing,  is  it?  Come 
on  down-stairs  and  we  can  talk. " 

"But  —didn't  you  want  to  read?"  inquired  she  cour- 
teously. 

"Oh,  I  just  sent  for  one  of  Henty's  books  —  but  it  can 
wait, "  he  replied  with  lordly  indifference  to  Henty's  fate. 


XXXIII 
A  GIFT  OF  PEANUTS 

TO  the   great    relief   of    the   rusty-veiled  woman 
the    two    children  went    down-stairs    together. 
The  woman    turned    and  watched  them   safely 
out  of  sight,  with  a  glance  that  openly  displayed  her  in- 
hospitable satisfaction. 

"Ain't  it  funny  to  find  you  here,  though!"  ejaculated 
Lillo. 

"  I  knew  you  were  coming  before  I  saw  your  head  above 
the  stairs. " 

"Oh,  stuff!   How  did  you  know?" 

"I, don't  know  how  I  knew.  But  people  almost  always 
know  when  any  one  is  coming. " 

"  Say,  I  think  you're  bigger  than  you  was  last  time, "  re- 
marked Lillo  approvingly. 

Rue  smoothed  down  her  pink  skirt  proudly,  measuring 
off  a  distance  on  her  white-stockinged  leg. 

"I'm  that  much  bigger  than  I  was  last  summer,"  she 
said.  Then  she  laughed.  The  humor  of  life  struck  her  most 
forcibly.  "  Oh  dear,  if  I  grow  very  much  more,  how  short 
this  pink  dress  will  be  for  me !  I  shall  have  to  wear  a  pair 
of  enormously  long  stockings.  " 

The  possibility  of  that  reverend  frock  being  laid  aside 
did  not  occur  to  her. 

298 


A  GIFT  OF  PEANUTS  299 

"  Gosh,  you'll  have  a  new  dress  by  that  time,  a  longer 
one,"  said  worldly-wise  Lillo. 

Rue  reflected  thriftily.  "  No,  I  think  that  Aunt  Serena 
will  sew  on  a  ruffle. "  Again  she  laughed.  The  little  laugh 
was  like  spring  sunshine  in  the  vestibule  of  the  Library. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"  I  was  thinking  how  many  ruffles  my  skirt  would  have 
by  the  time  I  am  a  big  lady. " 

The  boy  laughed  too,  with  hearty  abandon  at  the  absurd 
picture  Rue  called  up. 

"  What  are  you  doin'  here  in  N'York,  anvway  ?  "  asked 
Lillo  in  his  brusque  and  fascinating  way. 

"I'm  staying  with  Grandfather,"  replied  she,  "and 
Grandfather  is  attending  to  important  business.  He  goes 
away  all  the  time  with  Cousin  Frederick  and  comes  home 
so  very,  very  tired  and  very  sad.  I  have  to  tell  him  stories 
to  cheer  him  up." 

"Jerush!"  exclaimed  Lillo  sympathetically.  His  gray 
eyes,  even  when  they  laughed,  were  tender.  Now  they  were 
liquidly  bright.  The  readiness  of  his  eyes  to  well  up  with 
tears  was  an  unmanly  tendency  he  detested. 

"  Yes,  and  he  doesn't  like  to  have  me  ask  him  what  he  is 
doing,  but  I  tell  you  what  I  think, "  she  leaned  over  and 
whispered  mysteriously  into  Lillo's  ear.  "  I  think  —  he  is 
finding  me  a  mother.  He  promised  to,  long  ago. " 

"Promised  to  find  you  a  mother!" 

"  Yes,  it  all  began  with  the  Silent  Door.  You  know  there 
is  a  Silent  Door  in  our  house  and  nobody  can  ever  open  it, 
nor  hear  anything  inside.  And  Grandfather  was  very 
angry  with  me  because  I  whispered  things  into  the  key- 


300  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

hole.  But  afterwards  he  was  sorry  and  he  promised  that 
some  day  he  would  go  to  the  depths  of  a  great  town  and 
find  me  a  mother. " 

"Depths  of  a  great  town,"  repeated  Lillo.  "You  do 
come  out  with  such  all-fired  funny  lingo. " 

"  It's  out  of  a  poem  about  some  pilgrims  on  the  white  sea- 
sand.  All  of  them  are  very  sad  because  they've  lost  things 
and  can't  ever  get  them  back.  It  goes  like  this: 

But  one  had  wilder  woe 
For  a  fair  face  long  ago 
Lost  in  the  darker  depths  of  a  great  town. 

I  said  the  poem  last  night  to  Grandfather,  and  when  I 
came  to  that  place  he  made  a  dreadful  noise  in  his  throat, 
and  put  his  head  down  between  his  hands  on  the  table. 
He  sat  like  that  for  a  long,  long  time  and  did  not  answer  a 
word  when  I  spoke  to  him.  I  thought  he  must  be  asleep. 
I  came  to  him  and  put  my  face  right  up  close  to  his  and  he 
caught  me  in  his  arm  so  tight  he  hurt  me,  and  his  cheeks 
were  all  wet.  I  think  he  must  have  been  crying. " 

Lillo  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes  angrily.  "Let's 
go  out  into  the  sun,"  said  he. 

They  left  the  building  and  strolled  across  the  dingy  old- 
fashioned  Place,  with  its  remnants  of  past  gentility  in  the 
columned  fa9ades  and  the  massive  doorways. 

"  We  live  in  that  house, "  indicated  Rue,  with  some  due 
pride  in  her  temporal  dwelling.  "Our  room  is  very  large. 
I  can  tie  Grandfather's  coat  round  my  waist  ( it  makes  a 
beauteous  train  )  —  and  I  walk  back  and  forth  with  large 
steps  and  imagine  myself  a  princess  in  my  castle  hall.  The 


A  GIFT  OF  PEANUTS  301 

bed  is  so  high  I  have  to  climb  into  it  from  a  stool,  and  it 
has  skirts  all  the  way  around.  I  suppose  it  imagines  it  is 
a  lady." 

Lillo  was  not  listening  to  this  chatter,  but  deeply  absorbed 
in  a  train  of  thought  which  Rue's  allusion  to  the  finding 
of  a  mother  had  started. 

"  Come  over  here  and  sit  down  on  this  step. " 

It  was  a  cool  June  morning  and  the  sun  shone  on  their 
knees  as  they  perched  themselves  on  the  lowest  step  of 
Rue's  house.  A  scrap  of  vine  and  a  rag  of  bush  enlivened 
the  yard  with  greenness. 

"  Say,  ain't  your  name  Rue  ?  " 

"Yes,  Lillo." 

The  boy  smiled  a  little  at  this  odd  name  she  contin- 
ued to  use,  but  he  rather  fancied  it  from  her  lips.  It 
had  made  little  difference  in  his  irregular  life  whether  he 
knew  people's  names  or  they  his,  for  the  people  he  ran  up 
against  one  year  he  was  not  likely  to  meet  again.  The  imper- 
manence  of  human  relationships  had  been  early  impressed 
on  his  susceptible  nature. 

He  knew  that  somehow  or  other  Rue  was  mixed  up  with 
the  recent  interviews  between  his  mother  and  Mr.  Beak. 
But  the  plot  was  like  an  obscure  geographical  puzzle,  with 
all  the  pieces  shaken  together.  He  had  certainly  heard  them 
speak  of  Rue's  mother.  He  had  also  heard  the  expression 
"  buying  the  old  man, "  but  he  did  not  know  what  this 
meant.  He  did  not  dream  that  the  fair-haired  lady  whom 
his  mother  called  Angela  was  Rue's  mother.  He  knew  little 
of  his  mother's  plans  or  purposes  or  friends.  He  had  been 
whisked  away  with  her  for  a  few  weeks  at  the  Red  Bunga- 


302  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

low  in  the  interim  between  two  of  her  engagements,  and 
then  one  morning  she  had  bundled  him  into  the  train  with 
her  for  New  York  again.  Whether  or  not  they  would 
return  to  the  Red  Bungalow  that  summer  was  idle  specula- 
tion. 

"I've  got  something  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  grave  and 
manly.  "You've  got  a  mother  somewhere,  even  if  your 
Grandfather  can't  find  her.  My  mother  is  Babbie  Day, 
the  comic-opera  singer  and  she  knows  Mr.  Beak,  and 
they  both  know  your  mother,  and  my  mother  knows 
something  about  your  mother,  but  she  won't  tell  Mr. 
Beak." 

"  Oh,  Lillo, "  cried  Rue,  "  have  I  really  got  a  mother  like 
other  little  girls  ?  I  thought  I  was  like  Melchizzy  Decker, 
having  neither  beginning  of  days  nor  end  of  life. " 

"  You're  not  like  her,  whoever  the  dickens  she  is.  You've 
got  a  mother. " 

"  Why  doesn't  my  mother  come  and  live  with  us  ?  " 

"  Wait  till  I  finish.  Mr.  Beak  wants  to  find  your  mother. 
And  I  bet  he'll  do  it.  He's  a  big  man  and  can  have  most 
anything  he  wants.  You  don't  catch  him  napping. " 

"  But  if  I  go  and  tell  Mr.  Beak  that  I  want  my  mother 
my  own  self,  wouldn't  he  give  her  to  me  ?  " 

Lillo  shook  his  head  with  infinite  scorn.  "Beak's  a  sly 
bird.  He  may  have  found  your  mother  by  this  time,  but 
he  wouldn't  tell  a  soul.  That's  all  I  have  to  say. " 

He  consulted  his  ponderous  silver  watch  in  the  impres- 
sive manner  of  a  business  man  who  concludes  an  interview. 

"  A  sly  bird ! "  he  repeated  ominously. 

Rue's  lip  trembled.  Her  emotion  surged  against  the 


A  GIFT  OF  PEANUTS  303 

immovable  wall  of  Lillo's  ominous  silence.  Half-hurt, 
half -frightened,  she  felt  the  telltale  tears  coursing  down 
her  cheeks.  She  hoped  Lillo  would  not  observe,  and  she 
dared  not  reach  for  her  pocket-handkerchief  for  fear  any 
movement  would  arouse  him  from  his  stern  reverie.  How 
wise  he  was,  and  how  silent! 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  jerked  out,  not  turning  his 
head,  but  evidently  aware  of  her  tears. 

"  B-birds  aren't  sly, "  sobbed  Rue,  unable  to  explain  her 
vague  grief  more  clearly  than  in  this  manner. 

That  Lillo  understood  and  sympathized  was  evinced  by 
his  answer. 

"Them  Eighth  Street  cars  needs  a  new  coat  of  paint, 
bad ! "  he  remarked,  a  delicate  change  of  subject  showing 
his  tact  and  understanding. 

"Yes,"  said  Rue  piteously,  "but  paint  costs  a  great 
deal  in  New  York,  I  suppose. " 

Lillo  again  consulted  his  watch.  He  jumped  to  his  feet 
and  said  good-by,  wasting  no  social  efforts  on  gracious 
preliminaries.  Before  Rue  had  time  to  realize  his  departure, 
he  had  darted  off  northward.  Rue,  left  alone  on  the  steps 
of  her  house,  was  bewildered  by  the  burden  of  the  knowl- 
edge laid  upon  her.  Not  many  minutes  had  elapsed  before 
Lillo  appeared  again,  still  on  a  run  and  thrust  a  bag  of 
peanuts  into  her  hand. 

"Them's  for  you,"  he  said.  "I  bought  them  from  a 
dago  — " 

The  smile-light  gushed  over  their  two  faces. 

"Shall  I  tell  Grandfather  what  you  said?"  asked  Rue. 

"  I  don't  care  if  you  do, "  he  replied  royally. 


304  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

The  embarrassment  of  gift-giving  and  its  projectile  force 
did  not  allow  the  boy  to  linger.  Once  more  he  was  fleet- 
footed  down  the  block  and  vanished  around  the  forbidden 
corner  into  the  Unknown  from  which  he  had  come. 


XXXIV 
RUE  MAKES  A  FRIENDLY  CALL 

WHEN  one  makes  the  tremendous  discovery  that 
one  is  not  Melchizedek,  but  sprung  from  a  real 
human  mother,  one's  imagination  and  emotion 
are  deeply  stirred.  Action  follows  close  upon  the  heels  of  such 
a  discovery.  The  natural  and  inevitable  conclusion  was  to 
visit  Mr.  Beak,  in  whom,  according  to  Lillo,  reposed  the 
momentous  knowledge.  It  was  better  not  to  wait  till 
Grandfather's  return,  for  grandfathers  are  often  slow  to 
act  and  prone  to  queer  deliberateness  which  they  call 
"  good  judgment. "  The  speedy  decisions  of  youth  they 
style  "brashness"  or  "hotheaded  immaturity."  With 
such  epithets  were  the  Penrith  household  familiar.  As  for 
Rue's  notion  of  hotheadedness  she  had  found  out  that  what 
makes  the  head  hot  is  to  sit  down  and  wait.  When  Augustus 
pawed  the  gravel  before  starting  on  a  drive,  he  elicited 
Rue's  intelligent  sympathy.  The  urgent  action  now  was 
to  visit  Mr.  Beak.  Lillo  had  said  he  was  a  "sly  bird." 
There  was  doubtless  some  occult  connection  between 
his  name  and  his  bird-like  astuteness.  Somewhere  or  other, 
Rue  had  heard  the  legend  of  throwing  salt  on  a  bird's  tail. 
Perhaps  an  offering  of  salt  would  propitiate  the  slyness  of 
Mr.  Beak. 

Rue  bravely  set  forth  for  Broadway  and  the  nearest  store. 

305 


306  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Oh,  to  know  which  door  to  enter  and  how  to  decide  be- 
tween the  many  windows  that  offered  their  wares.  The 
Bear  Store  would  probably  keep  salt  for  all  animals  need 
salt,  as  Aunt  Serena  had  often  told  her.  The  clerk  seemed 
surprised. 

"  No,  we  don't  keep  salt  here,  Miss, "  he  said.  "  You'd 
better  go  to  Stark  and  Guilford's,  a  few  blocks  up. " 

The  name  had  a  stark  and  guilty  sound  that  caught  in 
Rue's  throat,  but  she  finally  found  the  establishment. 
A  gray-haired  man  who  looked  more  like  a  professor  of 
algebra  than  a  humble  clerk,  leaned  over  the  counter. 

"  How  much  ?  "  he  queried,  with  a  learned  look  over  his 
spectacles. 

The  terms  of  arithmetical  tables  treacherously  deserted 
her  mind.  "Twelve  inches  make  one  pint,  two  pints  one 
gill,"  echoed  confusedly. 

"  How  much  ?  "  said  the  gray -bearded  man. 

Rue  lifted  the  pink  hollow  of  her  little  hand.  "  About  so 
much,  sir.  It  is  only  to  — to  catch  a  bird  with, "  she  apolo- 
gized. 

"  To  catch  a  bird  with,  eh  ?  "  said  the  gray-beard  kindly, 
noticing  his  customer's  diminutive  size  and  flower-like  face. 

"That  is,  a  sort  of  bird,"  Rue  added,  floundering  be- 
tween her  desire  to  be  discreet  and  to  be  truthful. 

The  gray-beard  dealt  her  out  a  minute  parcel  and  Rue 
continued  on  her  way.  She  remembered  that  Mr.  Beak 
lived  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  up  two  flights  of 
broad  steps  after  you  go  in.  She  thought  it  would  be  very 
easy  to  find  the  house,  but  it  seemed  to  be  a  long  way  and 
the  street  went  on  and  on  forever.  Some  of  the  people  she 


RUE  MAKES  A  FRIENDLY  CALL         307 

met  looked  at  her  and  some  people  did  not,  but  every  one 
was  too  busy  to  pay  much  attention  to  the  little  heart- 
sick adventurer.  Her  feet  got  very  tired  and  by  and  by 
hope  went  out,  and  the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  Oh, 
where  was  Grandfather  and  she  wished  she  had  never 
started. 

"  You  look  as  if  you  was  lost,"  accused  a  big  policeman, 
leaning  down  to  touch  her  arm.  Rue  lifted  her  tear-stained 
face  to  his. 

"  Where's  your  ma  —  ?  Hadn't  you  orter  to  be  with 
her  ?  "  How  clearly  he  struck  at  the  root  of  the  matter. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  had  orter,"  answered  Rue,  politely  imitating 
his  phraseology,  "  but  I  don't  know  where  to  find  her." 

"  Lost,  for  sure ! "  reverberated  he  of  the  shiny  buttons. 

"No,  sir,"  Rue  defended  herself  valiantly,  "she's  lost 
and  the  street's  lost  where  I  want  to  go." 

"  Where  d'ye  wanter  go  ? "  asked  he,  lifting  her  to  his 
brawny  shoulder. 

"Please,  I  can  walk  very  nicely,"  sobbed  Rue,  freeing 
herself  from  the  indignity  of  his  arms.  "  I  want  to  find  Mr. 
Beak,  a  polite  man  who  knows  where  my  mother  is." 

The  policeman  and  Rue  went  into  a  drug-store  to  gain 
more  particulars  about  the  whereabouts  of  said  polite 
man  Beak.  It  was  Beak's  semi-public  character  rather 
than  his  politeness  that  enabled  the  guardian  of  the  dis- 
tressed to  take  Rue  to  her  destination. 

"  She  said  how  you  knew  where  her  ma  was,"  explained 
he  of  the  buttons,  agitating  his  club. 

"You  are  quite  right.  Leave  her  with  me,"  replied  Beak, 
pressing  a  piece  of  silver  into  the  policeman's  palm. 


308  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

After  the  policeman  departed  the  interview  proper  start- 
ed. As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  little  damp  parcel  of  salt  was 
utterly  forgotten,  which  may  account  for  the  fact  that  the 
bird  was  not  thoroughly  domesticated. 

Mr.  Beak  was,  at  the  moment  of  Rue's  arrival,  deeply 
plotting  the  next  move  in  his  game.  He  called  the  game 
"  love,"  but  it  more  resembled  the  strategies  of  a  financier, 
engaged  in  manipulating  markets.  A  man's  point  of  view 
is  an  extraordinarily  pervasive  fluid,  one  drop  of  which  is 
sufficient  to  color  every  act  of  his  life. 

"  Can  you  be  patient  a  few  minutes,  Miss  Rue,  while  I 
finish  my  business,  and  then  I  will  take  you  to  your  grand- 
father," said  Beak,  turning  his  attention  to  signing  a  pile 
of  letters. 

The  tenor  of  his  mind  can  be  inferred  from  the  fact 
that  he  signed  the  name  Angela  Field  to  two  of  the  docu- 
ments before  him  and  then  tore  them  up  without  the 
glimmer  of  a  smile.  Rue  sat  in  a  deep  willow  chair  not  far 
from  Beak's  desk,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  and  her 
blue  wondering  eyes  fastened  upon  Mr.  Beak's  rapidly- 
moving  fingers  and  impassive  face. 

"  Now,  dear,"  he  said  at  last.  It  was  time  for  her  to  begin. 

"  I  did  not  get  lost,  Mr.  Beak,"  said  Rue,  "  I  came  here 
on  purpose  to  see  you  about  —  about  something  impor- 
tant." 

Mr.  Beak  thought  that  this  was  the  youngest  and  most 
engaging  applicant  by  whom  he  had  ever  been  addressed. 

"Do  you  want  something  from  me,  Rue?"  asked  he, 
smiling. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  she,  unsmiling  and  solemn,  "but  please 


RUE  MAKES  A  FRIENDLY  CALL         309 

don't  tell  Grandfather  that  I  came.  He  would  think  I  was 
hotheaded.  Will  you  please  tell  me  where  my  mother  is  ?  " 

How  wonderfully  people  answered  or  echoed  each 
other's  unspoken  minds  that  day! 

Beak  gazed  at  the  little  girl  in  awe.  What  was  her  motive, 
what  her  knowledge,  what  her  instigation  ? 

"  You  know  your  grandfather  asked  me  the  same  ques- 
tion, and  I  said  I  did  not  know.  Who  sent  you  to  me  again  ?  " 

The  thin  neutral  tones  and  the  searching  glance  chilled 
Rue's  heart.  She  felt  herself  in  the  presence  of  a  stone. 

"Nobody  sent  me.  I  came  myself."  She  got  down  from 
her  chair  and  approached  Mr.  Beak.  She  stood  at  his  elbow 
and  looked  pleadingly  into  his  face.  She  expended  the  best 
of  her  soul  in  her  words  that  followed. 

"Mr.  Beak,  excuse  me  for  being  unpolite,  but  I  think 
that  you  know  where  my  mother  is.  Oh,  dear  Mr.  Beak, 
I  have  all  my  life  been  like  Melchizzy  Decker,  having 
neither  beginning  of  days  nor  end  of  life.  All  other  little 
girls  have  mothers  but  only  I  haven't  any.  It  is  lonely 
sometimes  at  Joppa  for  Grandfather  is  old  and  wise  and 
uses  such  long  words  I  cannot  always  talk  to  him,  and 
Aunt  Serena  doesn't  understand.  If  I  had  a  mother  I 
would  be  happy  all  the  time.  She  would  take  me  in  her 
arms  and  rock  me  and  sometimes  she  would  sing  me  to 
sleep.  And  when  I  get  that  great  big  lonely  feeling  as  if  I 
was  a  person  on  a  high  hilltop,  and  there  was  no  one  else 
in  all  the  world,  then,  Mr.  Beak,  I  would  remember  that 
I  had  a  mother  and  I  would  run  home  to  her  and  she 
would  call  me  sweet  names,  and  I  wouldn't  have  that 
lonely  feeling  any  more." 


310  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Mr.  Beak  was  silent,  looking  at  Rue's  eloquent  face. 

"  Please,  Mr.  Beak,  if  you  know,  why  won't  you  let  me 
find  my  mother  ?  Do  you  want  her,  too  ?  " 

Again,  in  marvelous  fashion  did  Rue's  words  go  straight 
to  the  mark.  Mr.  Beak  forgot  his  strategies  and  suspicions, 
and  was  thrilled  to  sincerity. 

"Yes,  Rue,  I  want  her." 

Rue  laid  her  little  hands  on  Mr.  Beak's  cold,  nervous 
fingers.  The  two  looked  at  each  other,  the  pure  blossom  of 
a  child  and  the  callous  theatrical  manager. 

"And  is  that  why  you  would  not  tell  me  where  she  is, 
Mr.  Beak?" 

"Yes,  that  is  why." 

Mr.  Beak  was  formulating  in  honest  speech  for  almost 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  his  bare  and  primitive  motives. 
Rue  was  thinking  till  her  head  grew  hot,  but  her  little 
thoughts  ran  clear  as  crystal. 

"  Did  you  think  that  if  she  had  me  she  wouldn't  want  you, 
too  ?  "  she  asked  slowly. 

"  Yes,  Rue,  that  is  about  what  I  thought.  If  she  had  you 
and  her  father  —  and  peace  and  home  again,  there  would 
not  be  any  need  of  me  in  her  life  —  and  so  —  I  could  not 
get  her." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  grown-up  people  wanted  mothers 
just  the  same  as  little  girls  do.  Do  you  want  her  very, 
very  much,  Mr.  Beak?" 

Rue's  sympathies  were  stirred  by  Mr.  Beak's  softened 
face  and  clouded  eyes.  Grown  people's  troubles  made  her 
child-soul  infinitely  compassionate. 

"Yes,  I  want  her  very,  very  much." 


RUE  MAKES  A  FRIENDLY  CALL         311 

"  I  do  not  like  to  be  selfish,  Mr.  Beak,"  said  Rue  tender- 
ly, "but  if  she  is  my  mother,  don't  you  think  I  have  a 
right  to  her?" 

"Yes." 

"  Then  don't  you  think  you  ought  to  tell  me  where  she 
is,  Mr.  Beak?  I  don't  like  to  be  selfish  and  unpolite.  I 
will  let  you  have  a  little  of  her  —  if  you  will  be  so  kind 
and  good  as  to  tell  me,  right  now  quick,  Mr.  Beak." 

Rue  was  almost  in  tears  with  the  extremity  of  her  emo- 
tion. She  had  said  all  she  had  to  say  —  and  she  had  not 
yet  won  the  knowledge. 

"  Rue,  I  do  not  know  where  your  mother  is.  I  am  trying 
to  find  her,  and  you  can  help  me.  If  we  go  partners  and 
find  her  between  us,  you  will  be  her  little  girl  and  mine, 
too.  Shall  you  like  that,  Rue?" 

"Where  will  Grandfather  be?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  and  Mr.  Beak's  face  hardened. 

"Sha'n't  we  all  live  together  in  Joppa?  Grandfather 
would  be  very  lonely  without  me  and  who  would  teach 
me  poetries  and  commune  with  me  seriously  if  Grandfather 
were  goned  away  ?  " 

"  We  shall  see  about  that  later.  But  now  is  the  time  to 
help  me.  Will  you?" 

The  smiling  blue  eyes  bent  upon  her. 

"  Yes,  I  will  try,  if  it  is  not  wrong." 

"No,  it  will  not  be  wrong." 

He  pushed  a  button  above  his  desk,  and  in  a  minute  a 
young  woman  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Rue,  this  is  Miss  Bernstein.  Miss  Bernstein,  this  is 
little  Miss  Penrith.  I  want  you  to  take  her  for  a  drive  in 


312  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

the  Park.  And  bring  her  to  my  house  by  seven  o'clock." 

He  put  a  five-dollar  bill  into  Miss  Bernstein's  hand. 

"  But  will  Grandfather  know  where  I  am  ?  "  Rue  stood 
in  front  of  Mr.  Beak,  chestnut  curls,  little  chip  hat  and 
Constantinople  cloak  and  earnestly  sought  his  eyes  with 
her  upward  violet  glance. 

"  I  will  telephone  to  your  grandfather.  That  is  all,  Miss 
Bernstein." 

Rue  and  the  young  woman  went  out,  hand  in  hand. 

Mr.  Beak  sat  down  to  his  desk  with  a  deep,  strange 
smile.  As  he  did  not  know  Mr.  Penrith's  address  his 
promise  had  been  easily  made.  His  ignorance  and  Rue's 
ignorance  of  their  New  York  street  and  number  protected 
him  from  blame  in  the  case  of  a  possible  emergency.  He 
sent  a  'phone  message  to  Mr.  Bastable  and  plunged  into 
study  of  the  situation. 

He  was  a  steady  man  of  pertinacious  purpose,  and  his 
purpose  for  the  last  two  years  had  been  Danae  Penrith. 
Long  ago  when  she  had  first  come  under  his  observation, 
he  had  fancied  her.  From  a  fancy  grew  a  fascination,  an 
infatuation,  an  enduring  passion,  a  pursuit.  The  man 
loved  her  to  the  full,  according  to  the  capacity  of  his  nature. 
Her  indifference  and  her  continued  resistance  to  his  wishes 
had  inflamed  his  desire  to  an  unappeasable  degree.  Danae 
was  a  singular  creature,  with  an  inexplicable  influence 
over  men.  Her  gracious  air  of  insouciance,  her  delicious 
softness,  her  unworldliness  and  bird-like  abandon  to 
pleasure;  her  childlike  face  and  look  of  sadness;  her  high- 
bred air,  not  the  lady  of  fashion  she,  but  like  a  thrush  or 
a  gazelle,  one  who  steps  delicately  with  the  wild  grace  of 


RUE  MAKES  A  FRIENDLY  CALL         313 

centuries ;  —  these  contrasting  qualities,  this  singular 
combination,  fixed  her  image  upon  the  masculine  nature. 
Beak  was  an  artist,  his  medium  was  personality,  tempera- 
ment, and  he  had  the  appreciation  of  a  virtuoso  for  the 
rare,  the  effective,  the  "new  note"  in  his  medium,  just 
as  a  painter  exults  in  "  fresh "  color.  He  had  fallen  in  love 
with  Danae  first  as  the  artist,  next  as  the  man  and  libertine, 
lastly  and  finally  as  the  lover  and  husband-to-be. 

When  her  health  began  to  fail  he  had  given  her  a  year's 
leave  of  absence  with  an  advance  of  salary,  more  as  a 
measure  of  winning  her  trust  and  gratitude  than  for  any 
other  cause.  He  was  wise  enough  to  be  aware  that  his  own 
persistence  cloyed.  He  hoped  that  in  her  absence  from  him 
she  would  miss  the  daily  practical  attentions  by  which 
he  had  wooed  her  in  New  York.  The  parting  words  be- 
tween them  were  brief  and  characteristic. 

"  Angela,"  he  said,  as  he  drove  her  to  the  Pennsylvania 
ferry,  "I  shall  ask  you  again  and  again  and  again.  And 
even  if  I  do  not  win  your  love,  I  can  always  serve  you." 
"There  is  nothing  I  want  that  you  can  give." 
"  Is  there  nothing  in  the  world,  Angela,  that  you  want  ?  " 
She  turned  upon  him  with  sudden  abandon  to  home- 
weariness  in  her  wonderful  eyes. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Beak.  I  want  my  little  child." 
"You  shall  have  the  child,"  he  said,  as  they  boarded 
the  boat  —  "  And  then  ?  —  " 

A  fire  swept  over  her  from  head  to  foot.  "You  shall 
have  me,"  she  cried. 

He  led  her  to  the  bow  of  the  boat  where  they  could  watch 
the  other  shore  steadily  approaching.  It  was  characteristic 


314  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

of  him  to  push  his  courtship  under  the  most  unpropitious 
circumstances,  and  up  to  the  last  moment  of  parting. 

"Angela!"  he  said,  seizing  her  hand  and  demanding  a 
counter  look  to  his  own. 

"But  listen,"  she  sighed  wearily,  "I  know  father  will 
never  give  her  up  to  me  nor  to  any  one  else." 

Then  the  chains  began  to  grind  and  the  guy-ropes  to 
strain  as  the  boat  churned  into  the  slip. 

Since  then,  Danae  had  disappeared  from  his  life,  as 
well  as  from  everyone  else's.  He  did  not  know  whether 
she  were  alive  or  dead,  but  his  passion  had  not  abated 
one  whit.  It  was  only  lately  that  he  had  learned  from 
Babbie  Day  that  she  had  been  in  communication  with 
Miss  Field.  The  information  had  slipped  out  unwarily. 
More  he  could  not  wring  from  her.  Mrs.  Day  emphatically 
averred  that  at  the  present  time  she  knew  no  more  of 
Angela's  whereabouts  than  did  Mr.  Beak. 

Bastable  was  announced  and  entered. 

"What  news?"  said  Beak. 

"Penrith  continues  obdurate.  I  have  no  word  of  the 
daughter." 

"  Have  you  discovered  Penrith's  business  in  New  York, 
all  of  it?" 

"The  search  for  his  daughter — " 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  the  theatrical  manager  im- 
patiently. "  What  means  this  collaboration  with  Frederick 
Droll?" 

"The  same  end." 

"I  know,  I  know.  But  Droll,  his  motive?" 

"The  same  as  yours,"  said  Bastable,  fixing  his  cold,  flat 


RUE  MAKES  A  FRIENDLY  CALL         315 

eyes  on  Joseph  Beak's  flushed  face.  Beak  toyed  with  his 
watch-fob,  then,  after  a  pause,  spoke  again. 

"  I  am  a  better  detective  than  you,  Bastable.  I  can  add 
to  your  information.  Father  Penrith's  heart  is  softened, 
which  means  — " 

He  paused  for  the  other  man  to  continue,  as  if  testing 
his  acuteness. 

"Well?"  said  Bastable  coolly. 

"  I  must  tell  you,  must  I  ?  It  means  that  it  is  a  race  be- 
tween him  and  me.  Angela  Field  is  the  goal.  If  father 
and  daughter  meet,  I  am  done  for,  the  game  is  up.  She 
will  have  her  child.  That  is  all  she  wants.  This  means  a 
loss  to  you,  also,  eh,  Bastable  ?  " 

Bastable  remained  silent,  his  cold,  flat  eyes  fixed  on 
Mr.  Beak's  watch-chain. 

"  The  child  Rue  is  now  in  New  York,"  began  Bastable 
slowly.  "If  she  could  be  taken  from  the  grandfather, 
lost,  strayed  from  the  house,  we  will  say  —  and  the  act 
could  be  traced  to  Miss  Field's  agency  — 

"Too  elaborate,"  said  Beak.  "For  although  the  child 
is  legally  the  mother's  yet  she  has  been  for  six  years  with 
her  grandfather  and  he  will  not  give  her  up.  If  the  mother 
wished  to  bring  a  civil  suit,  she  could  perhaps  get  the 
child.  Once  I  discussed  the  matter  with  Miss  Field.  She 
stands  in  moral  fear  of  Dr.  Penrith  and  will  not  resort  to 
law." 

"I  know,"  replied  Bastable,  following  the  tenor  of 
Beak's  words  with  a  lawyer's  dry  precision. 

"  In  a  nutshell,  it's  this.  Angela  Field  has  a  fad  at  present. 
Some  women  want  motors,  some  monkeys.  Men  court 


316  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

them  by  humoring  their  fancy.  Miss  Field  wants,  or 
thinks  she  wants,  the  little  girl.  That's  the  way  I  court 
her.  Little  Rue  is  the  betrothal  gift." 

"Is,  or  will  be?" 

"Is,  literally.  For  she  is  in  my  keeping — " 

"  But  what  will  you  do  with  her  ?  " 

"  Hold  on  to  her.  She's  an  attractive  little  piece,  anyhow. 
A  great  deal  can  be  made  of  her." 

Bastable  pursed  his  lips  doubtfully.  Beak  answered 
the  unspoken  argument. 

"The  law  can't  touch  us.  She  strayed  to  my  office, 
doesn't  know  her  own  street  address.  I  am  acting  in  the 
mother's  interests." 

"Who's  to  prove  it?" 

"That's  the  rub.  If  Miss  Field  could  be  found,  I've 
won." 

"Meanwhile—" 

Again  Bastable  pursed  his  lips  and  narrowed  his 
eyes.  He  was  too  well  aware  of  all  the  subtleties  of  the 
law. 

"There's  a  day  to  reckon  on,"  said  Beak  hopefully. 
"Much  can  be  done  in  a  day.  Bastable,  your  men  are  at 
work.  Double  your  force.  I  double  my  offer." 

Bastable's  eyes  gleamed. 

"  I've  a  clue  already,  Mr.  Beak.  I  will  set  to  work  with 
renewed  energy.  Have  you  considered  advertising?  A 
personal  that  would  catch  Miss  Field's  eye?" 

"I  have  not  considered  it,"  retorted  Joseph  Beak  in 
quick,  low  scorn. 

The  men  parted  and  again  Joseph  Beak,  surrounded 


RUE  MAKES  A  FRIENDLY  CALL         317 

by  the  official  stillness  of  the  inner  sanctum  of  a  great 
business,  lost  himself  in  unofficial  reflections  and  longing. 
All  the  more  did  he  desire  Angela  Field  because  she  played 
so  consummately  the  role  of  reluctance  and  evasion. 


XXXV 
DANAE  AWAKES 

IT  is  not  always  by  the  slow  and  normal  growth  of 
body  and  mind  that  the  boy  becomes  the  man, 
the  girl  the  woman.  It  is  more  often  by  some 
single  experience  or  even  under  the  fiery  finger  of  one 
crucial  moment  that  the  chrysalis  is  broken  and  a  full- 
grown  being  emerges.  It  is  not  necessarily  a  great  emotion 
that  accomplishes  this  great  transformation.  A  trivial 
mortification,  a  physical  hardship,  a  dissevered  friendship, 
an  illusion  done  away  with,  a  revealing  scrap  of  knowledge, 
an  opposition  to  one's  desires,  a  siege  to  one's  conscience, 
the  need  of  strength  for  some  battle,  these  are  a  few  of  the 
occasions  when  the  full-grown  man  is  first  revealed. 

Danae  Penrith  had  met  the  emotional  vicissitudes  of 
her  life  in  the  spirit  of  a  child.  She  had  flown  into  a  passion, 
run  away,  loved,  and  been  loved,  and  yielded  to  desire. 
She  had  grown  weary  and  hated ;  she  had  borne  her  child, 
she  had  forgotten  and  been  forgotten.  She  had  been  wor- 
shiped and  the  worship  had  not  moved  her  soul.  There  had 
been  one  enduring  emotion  in  her  life,  fear  of  her  father. 
There  is  great  fear  —  and  good  reason  for  great  fear 
where  there  is  not  understanding.  Then  came  a  new  ex- 
perience not  so  vital,  not  so  elemental  as  those  others, 
and  at  this  new  experience  she  gathered  together  all  her 

318 


DANAE  AWAKES  319 

forces,  found  herself  and  became  a  woman.  She  was  mid- 
way of  this  experience  when  she  met  Rue  in  Peter  Kenyon's 
deserted  garden. 

This  new  experience  had  the  curious  effect  of  revivifying 
her  past  emotions,  shedding  over  them  an  intenser  glow. 
All  along  her  life,  as  at  the  stirring  of  a  gentle  wind  over 
a  smoldering  prairie,  little  flames  leapt  up,  marking  the 
site  of  what  had  seemed  extinct  fires.  Her  love  for  Peter 
Kenyon,  Frederick's  love  for  her,  her  great  longing  for 
her  father,  her  need  of  her  child,  all  these  feelings  blew  into 
vivid  life.  But  she  was  still  afraid.  The  new  experience  in 
her  life  had  been  that  thing  at  which  Dr.  Penrith  and 
Frederick  were  dimly  guessing,  the  relations  between  her 
and  Joseph  Beak. 

A  cab  drove  rapidly  across  the  block  from  Sixth  Avenue 
to  Broadway,  turned  the  corner  sharply  and  came  to  a 
stand  before  the  Rotterdam  Building.  A  woman  alighted, 
a  tall,  slight  creature,  with  a  crepe  dress  in  a  street  shade 
of  blue,  and  a  blue  linen  coat,  unbuttoned,  that  fluttered 
about  her  like  an  open  sheath.  The  woman  wore  a  hat  of 
the  sort  that  milliners  term  lingerie.  It  was  white  muslin, 
with  many  crisp  edges  of  narrow  lace  and  a  garland  of 
blue  flowers  under  the  brim.  Through  the  mist  of  white 
veiling  across  her  face  one  could  not  discern  her  features, 
but  one  noted  a  delicately  modeled  ear  and  a  mass  of 
blond  hair  of  that  unusual  shade  which  is  nearest  to  ripe 
corn  and  does  not  carry  a  tint  of  red  or  brown  in  its  lights 
and  shadows.  So  much  the  careless  bystanders  noticed, 
and  there  are  always  bystanders  about  the  open  entrance 
and  the  broad  steps  of  the  Rotterdam  Building.  The 


320  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

woman  mounted  the  steps  with  an  air  of  being  detached 
from  her  surroundings. 

In  the  midst  of  his  plottings  and  counterplottings, 
Joseph  Beak  was  startled  by  a  card  laid  on  his  desk  by 
Sam,  his  sleek  black  usher. 

"  Will  I  tell  huh  to  wait,  sah  ?  "  asked  Sam,  noting  the 
impatient  hand  with  which  Mr.  Beak  drew  the  card  to- 
ward him. 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  then  as  the  written  name  caught 
his  eye,  "  No,  no,  you  idiot,  show  her  in  at  once." 

When  the  door  had  closed  noiselessly  behind  black 
Sam's  accustomed  touch,  the  theatrical  manager  was  on 
his  feet,  trembling,  his  eyes  aflame,  for  the  name  on  the 
card  was  Angela  Field.  She  entered,  a  distinguished  crea- 
ture, whoever  beheld  her,  and  not  less  charming  when  she 
had  untied  her  veil  and  the  soft  pale  face  was  disclosed, 
the  misty  eyes  and  the  black  lashes  with  their  irresistible 
upward  curve. 

"  Angela !  Angela  Field !  You  have  come  to  me  at  last !  " 

How  marvelously  events  were  playing  into  his  grasp 
that  afternoon. 

Danae  gave  him  one  hand  and  at  the  same  time  held  him 
off  with  a  pretty  unconscious  gesture.  Then  she  seated 
herself,  with  that  indescribable  air  that  made  a  place  at 
once  seem  home  to  the  men  who  loved  her. 

"  I  am  Danae  Penrith.  That  is  my  right  name,"  she  said 
simply. 

"  I  know  it,"  he  replied  humbly,  as  if  rebuked.  "  Where 
have  you  been  and  why  have  you  hidden  from  me  all  these 
months,  Danae  Penrith?" 


DANAE  AWAKES  321 

"  I  have  been  so  ill.  I  did  not  want  to  see  any  one.  I 
wanted  to  be  away  from  you  and  — " 

"And  from  my  wooing,"  he  finished  smilingly.  "Why 
have  you  come  now,  Miss  Penrith  ?  " 

Even  as  he  spoke,  between  question  and  answer,  be- 
tween word  and  word,  glance  and  glance,  an  undercurrent 
of  swift  plotting  swept  through  his  mind.  There  are  people 
who,  no  matter  how  great  the  crisis,  how  urgent  the  emo- 
tion, can  never  fail  to  look  ahead,  to  foresee  outcomes,  to 
weigh  the  process. 

"To  see  you,  Mr.  Beak.  What  of  the  child  ?" 

Danae's  thin  fingers  clasped  and  unclasped  themselves. 
A  faint  color  tinged  her  cheeks. 

"You  remember  your  promise?"  said  Mr.  Beak. 

Danae  lifted  her  chin  proudly,  gave  no  other  answer. 
Mr.  Beak  handled  his  cards  more  deftly. 

"  I  bore  in  mind  your  warning,"  he  began  softly,  "  that 
your  father  would  never  give  up  the  child  to  you,  on 
account  of  his  prejudices  against  these  surroundings,  his 
undying  resentment.  I  approached  him  anonymously.  I 
offered  him  money,  five  thousand,  ten  thousand  dollars.  I 
offered  to  bring  him  to  the  prospective  parents.  I  would 
have  provided  eminently  respectable  parents.  The  result 
was  — " 

"  I  know  the  result,"  said  Danae  quietly.  "  What  next  ?  " 

"There  is  only  one  thing  left  us,  to  bring  a  civil  suit. 
You  are  the  child's  mother." 

"  I  will  never  sue  my  own  father,"  cried  Danae,  shrink- 
ing in  her  chair,  her  whole  soft  face  sculptured  to 
terror.  "Think  how  I  abandoned  Rue  and  how  he  has 


322  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

cared  for  her.  Think  of  my  life  and  the  —  what  he  might 

say  of  me,  in  court." 

The  scorching  invective,  the  relentless  condemnation  of 
which  Justinian  was  capable,  sounded  in  her  ears  that 
moment.  It  was  as  if  she  were  in  the  court-room  before  the 
judge  and  the  jury.  She  saw  her  father  with  the  noble  brow 
and  sunken  tragic  eyes,  she  saw  the  spent  lines  of  the 
austere  face,  the  wasted  form,  its  self-denial,  the  wrath  of 
the  aspect,  and  she  heard  those  slow  chosen  words,  that 
had  so  often  thrilled  her  soul  with  terror.  She  saw  the 
white-mustached  judge,  his  clinched  hands  upon  his  desk, 
his  intent  judicial  eyes  and  keen  look  from  one  to  the 
other.  She  saw  the  jury  behind  the  railing,  leathery  men, 
a  row  of  thoughtful  or  curious  faces.  Vulgar,  cynical,  leer- 
ing, stoical,  gross. 

Danae  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands  and  cowered 
before  the  lightning  flash  of  her  imagination. 

"  No,  no,"  she  cried.  "  I  will  never  sue  —  my  father." 

"  But  you  want  your  child,"  said  Mr.  Beak,  gently. 

"Oh,  more  than  anything  else  on  earth.  I  should  be  a 
saved  woman.  I  love  her  so  much.  She  is  mine.  It  is  as  if 
I  had  just  born  her." 

Beak  kept  silent,  still  holding  back  his  trump  card, 
awaiting  the  supremely  propitious  moment. 

"  I  have  thought  I  would  go  to  Father,  go  to  him  after 
all  these  years  —  and  ask  him  for  Rue." 

"  And  then,  you  would  support  yourself  and  the  child  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Beak,  you  have  so  often  said  that  even  if  I  could 
not  give  you  my  love,  you  would  serve  me.  I  know  it  is  a 
great  deal  to  ask.  I  have  been  ill,  and  playgoers  have  for- 


DANAE  AWAKES  323 

gotten  me.  But  could  you  not  give  me  parts,  little  parts,  a 
little  salary  ?  It  would  be  enough  for  Rue  and  me." 

"And  in  return?"  said  Beak,  drawing  in  his  breath 
slowly. 

Danae  threw  up  her  hands. 

"  Ah,  what  return  could  I  give  ?  " 

"  A  very  little  return  would  be  enough,  all  I  should  ask- 
That  I  might  come  and  see  you,  see  your  face,  your  eyes, 
your  smile.  Be  at  home  with  you  a  little  while,  once  in  a 
while.  That  sometimes  at  the  season's  end,  when  I  am 
fagged,  I  might  take  you  away  with  me,  for  a  week,  a 
month." 

"Is  that  a  little?"  she  exclaimed,  flushing  and  paling. 
"I  will  not  listen  to  you." 

"  Forgive  me,  Miss  Penrith.  I  did  not  know  you  had 
—  you  would  feel  —  so  strongly  —  as  to  the  conventions." 

She  met  his  mind  with  simplicity.  Not  a  knightly  lover, 
this. 

"  Ah,  that  was  different.  We  loved  each  other,"  she  said 
frankly.  "  I  see  it  all  plainly,  Mr.  Beak.  I  will  go  away 
and  leave  you.  I  could  not  accept  anything,  anything  at 
your  hands,  even  for  the  child's  sake.  It  would  be  bondage, 
slavery.  I  will  work  out  my  destiny  alone.  And  by  and  by, 
perhaps,  I  may  win  back  Rue,  I  do  not  think  it  all  out 
clearly  now.  Then  I  shall  be  so  happy.  I  will  sew,  make 
bonnets,  I  am  very  clever  with  my  hands." 

She  laughed  her  childlike,  beseeching  laugh.  A  tender 
old-time  memory  came  into  her  mind,  vividly,  suddenly, 
in  its  entirety,  in  a  way  that  little  forgotten  memories  have, 
a  mysterious  rebirth. 


324  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

It  was  a  fourteen-year  old  experiment  of  hers  with  a 
bonnet,  a  froth  of  green  point  d'esprit,  a  spray  of  gera- 
nium leaves  and  a  reel  of  "oil-boiled"  green  ribbon. 
Father  had  occasionally  the  weakness  to  encourage  her 
in  the  "concoction  of  debonair  head -gear,"  to  use  his 
studiedly  archaic  phrasing.  Danae  caught  him  remarking 
to  Aunt  Serena,  "The  child  has  really  a  pretty  knack  at 
millinery." 

When  he  let  slip  this  unguarded  compliment  he  was 
surprised  by  the  apparition  of  Danae  herself  in  the  door- 
way. How  much  or  how  little  of  his  unwise  encomium  she 
had  heard  he  could  not  guess,  but  there  lay  her  flippant 
head-gear  on  the  table,  the  ribbon  drooping  in  tentative 
ears.  There  stood  Aunt  Serena,  her  hand  upon  the  green 
frothiness  of  lace,  an  unaesthetic  hand  that  reduced 
persiflage  to  ridiculousness.  The  man's  deep  voice  spoke : 

"She  has  really  a  pretty  knack  at  — 

Danae  could  hear  the  voice  now  and  see  the  indul- 
gent smile  that  lighted  the  kind,  tired  face.  The  conclu- 
sion he  choked  off  inarticulately  because  of  Danae's  flur- 
rying gown  in  the  doorway.  Unblushing  Danae  had  the 
impudence  to  laugh. 

"  There,  Father,  I  knew  you  liked  it.  And  when  I  asked 
you  if  the  flowers  would  look  better  under  the  brim 
or  above,  you  pretended  you  thought  I  was  hemming 
iron-holders.  You  knew  it  was  a  bonnet.  I  believe  Aunt 
Serena  has  been  trying  it  on.  Was  it  becoming,  Aunt 
Serena  ?  " 

At  this  gratuitous  insult,  Aunt  Serena  discovered  a 
burnt  smell  issuing  from  the  region  of  the  kitchen.  Justin- 


DANAE  AWAKES  325 

ian  turned  to  her  with  that  mandatory  cough  which  in- 
troduces a  direction 

"  As  I  was  saying,  Serena,  the  present  incumbent,  - 
what  is  her  name  ?  — has  a  pretty  knack  at  puddings,  and  I 
would  fully  indorse  her  claim  for  a  dollar's  increase  in  her 
monthly  wage." 

This  was  the  little  intimate  memory  suddenly  reborn 
in  Danae's  mind  as  she  laughed,  with  tears,  in  Joseph 
Beak's  office. 

She  rose,  dashed  away  a  tear,  smiled.  "  That  is  all,  Mr. 
Beak.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  help  me." 

"Where  are  you  going,  my  child?" 

"  I  am  going  to  my  father." 

"  You  will  go  to  him  in  vain.  I  have  seen  your  father  and 
pleaded  for  you.  You  have  broken  his  life  and  turned  him 
to  stone.  He  will  not  receive  you,  will  not  listen  to  you." 

"You  have  seen  Father!"  she  gasped.  It  was  the  first 
time  in  the  many  years  since  that  awful  home-leaving  that 
she  had  come  so  close  to  his  presence.  "  What  did  he  say  — 
of  me  ?  Does  he  not  want  —  even  a  little  —  to  see  me  — 
just  once  ?  Does  he  not  care  —  what  I  am,  how  I  am  doing  ?" 

Mr.  Beak  framed  his  speech  with  swift,  steady  mendac- 
ity to  accomplish  his  end. 

"  He  said  that  it  was  as  if  he  had  no  daughter.  He  had 
wiped  you  out  of  his  life,  because,  as  he  said,  you  have 
committed  an  unpardonable  sin." 

Beak  was  repeating  the  veritable  words  that  Danae  had 
once  quoted  to  him,  but  upon  her  they  fell  with  the  force 
of  a  fresh  blow.  She  leaned  against  the  wall,  piteous,  en- 
treating. 


326  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  He  said  you  were  better  forgotten,  for  your  own  sake, 
for  the  child's." 

"  Oh,  God  spare  me,"  She  bowed  her  head. 

"But  I  — I  love  you,  Danae." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  thus  simply  and  man- 
fully declared  his  love.  And  the  declaration  followed  the 
cruel  lie. 

"  Come  to  me,  Danae."  The  nearness  of  his  outstretched 
hands  filled  her  with  horror. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  be  alone  any  more.  I  am  going  to 
shield  you  and  make  life  easy  for  you.  You  are  going  to  be 
mine." 

,She  trembled  before  his  voice,  his  look. 

"  If  not  for  my  sake,  for  the  child's  sake ! " 

"For  the  child's  sake!" 

"  For  Rue's  sake.  I  have  her.  I  hold  her  for  you.  I  offer 
you  marriage,  my  name,  protection  and  honor  for  your- 
self, your  child." 

"  Father  has  given  her  to  you !  I  thought  you  said  —  " 

"  I  did  not  tell  you  all.  When  I  went  to  him  personally, 
he  yielded.  Friends  of  mine  went  to  him.  His  health  is 
failing.  He  is  old.  He  is  poor.  Considerations  for  the  child's 
future—" 

"  Father  is  in  New  York  and  Rue  —  "  Overwhelmed 
Danae  did  not  discern  the  over-eagerness  of  the  liar  in 
Beak's  recital. 

"Rue  is  in  my  house." 

"  Ah,  then  Rue  is  mine,  mine.  Give  her  to  me." 

"  Rue  is  mine.  I  will  take  her  to  you  —  if  you  allow 
me." 


DANAE  AWAKES  327 

Danae  shivered  before  the  velvet  voice.  She  met  the  eyes 
of  adamant  and  quailed. 

"  Give  me  my  child.  Do  not  be  hard.  Please,  please,  in 
God's  mercy !  Do  not  impose  that  condition,  that  impossible 
condition." 

Again  she  met  the  eyes  of  adamant  and  quailed.  But  the 
voice  was  velvet. 

"  It  will  not  be  so  —  hard  as  you  think,  this  condition." 

Beak  smiled  grimly  at  the  thought  of  how  humbly  he 
pleaded  his  suit  before  this  obscure,  penniless  and  disin- 
herited young  woman. 

"  Your  life  shall  be  just  what  you  desire.  The  ceremony 
will  make  us  man  and  wife.  We  shall  live  together  in  one 
house  if  it  so  pleases  you.  If  not,  you  shall  maintain  your 
own  establishment,  separate  from  mine.  You  will  order  the 
relationship  according  to  your  feelings.  You  may  come  to 
me  only  when  your  heart  bids  you.  Danae,  will  you  be 
my  wife  ? " 

"For  the  child's  sake,"  she  whispered,  and  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands,  weeping. 


XXXVI 
IN  SEARCH 

DEAR  Danae,"  said  Droll,  "she  was  so  gentle. 
I  remember  the  way  her  lids  fluttered  before 
she  laughed,  and  the  blue  veins  in  her  right 
temple  that  formed  a  pale  cross.  It  was  that  cross  that 
first  made  me  love  her." 

The  father  remembered  it,  too,  and  how  he  had  kissed  it 
when  she  was  a  child  asleep. 

During  these  weeks  Justinian  became  accustomed  to 
Droll's  personality  and  habits  and  found  much  in  him  that 
was  likable  and  even  admirable.  His  startling  transitions 
from  the  melancholy  and  serious  to  the  flippant  and  scoffing, 
his  mixture  of  fine  perception  with  coarse  materialism, 
his  unregulated  impulses  and  dogged  loyalty  to  a  past 
affection,  these  were  the  qualities  and  contradictions  to 
which  the  old  man  accustomed  himself.  The  two  men  were 
united  in  a  common  cause,  and  there  is  nothing  that  con- 
duces more  to  mutual  affection  and  understanding  than 
such  a  union. 

Loyalty  is  one  of  the  magnet  qualities  in  a  person's 
nature.  Around  it  cluster  a  number  of  other  virtues, 
irresistibly  drawn  thither  and  not  to  be  separated  from 
that  powerful  center  of  attraction.  To  be  loyal  to  another 
is  also  to  be  loyal  to  a  fact  in  one's  own  life.  It  is  a  sup- 

328 


IN  SEARCH  329 

erior  form  of  self-respect  that  does  not  measure  lightly  or 
waste  carelessly  one's  own  allegiances.  He  who  spends 
himself  freely  here  and  there  and  keeps  no  account  values 
insufficiently  the  coin  of  his  own  heart  and  soul.  All  loyal- 
ties can  ultimately  be  resolved  into  loyalty  to  one's  self- 
Everything  that  is  best  and  noblest  in  the  world  is  perhaps 
translatable  in  terms  of  the  larger  self. 

There  was  something  inexpressibly  touching  in  Frederick 
Droll's  attitude  to  the  past.  Justinian  did  not  know  whether 
Frederick's  allegiance  was  wholly  for  Danae  or  for  his  own 
love  that  he  had  once  sworn.  Ill,  pain-racked,  world-tired, 
unloved  as  he  seemed  to  be,  with  bitter  memories  of 
Danae's  indifference  toward  him  —  yet  consumed  with 
this  fire  of  loyalty  and  urged  to  unflagging  efforts. 

The  two  men  were  taking  their  noonday  meal  in  an 
Italian  restaurant  known  to  Droll.  Tables  were  set  in  the 
backyard  and  the  Guinardi  family,  young  and  old,  de- 
voted themselves  in  the  suave  Italian  way  to  serving  their 
guests.  It  took  the  young  man  back  to  ristoranti  and 
trattorie  in  his  beloved  Italy. 

He  continued  speaking: 

"  I  thought  that  as  Danae  has  been  off  the  stage  for 
a  year  we  would  find  her  now  in  New  York.  Dear,  reckless 
Danae,  she  would  be  out  of  money  by  this  time  and  looking 
for  a  position.  The  old  life  is  fascinating  and  does  not  easily 
let  go  of  its  devotees." 

Justinian's  face  took  on  its  stricken  hue.  Those 
deep  lines  came  which  the  tortured  mind  so  quickly 
draws. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  we  have  considered  every  possr 


330  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

bility  ?  —  there  are  circumstances  under  which  she  would 
not  be  in  need  of  earning  money." 

"God!"  cried  Droll,  throwing  away  his  cigarette  and 
aimlessly  searching  for  his  tobacco-pouch. 

"You  spoke  of  personal  influence,"  the  old  man  con- 
tinued. "  Some  one  else  lifted  an  ambiguous  brow  at  the 
mention  of  this  Joseph  Beak.  She  was  in  his  company. 
Is  it  probable,  is  it  possible  that  he  is  in  reality  ignorant 
of  her  whereabouts  ?  " 

"I  do  not  follow." 

"This  Bastable  is  his  emissary,  I  believe.  Who  is  it 
that  wishes  Rue  but  Danae  ?  She  is  afraid  to  approach  me. 
Who  offers  the  money  but  Beak?  There  it  is.  Put  two 
and  two  together,  Frederick." 

"  You  think  then  —  "  said  Droll,  a  blood-streak  crossing 
the  troubled  orb  of  his  eyes. 

"  I  think  it  possible  that  Joseph  Beak  and  my  daughter 
are  in  collusion."  The  old  indomitable  light  flashed  from 
his  wasted  face. 

"  If  this  is  so,"  spoke  Droll,  his  every  word  palpitating 
with  passion.  "You  will,  of  course,  give  up  the  child  to 
her  mother." 

"Frederick,  you  are  mad,"  said  Dr.  Penrith  in  a  voice 
of  such  penetration  that  a  neighboring  diner-out  turned  to 
stare  at  the  old  man,  and  little  Enriquetta  Guinardi,  carry- 
ing a  tray  of  macaroni,  trembled  and  dropped  the  plates. 
"  Give  Rue  to  her,  leading  this  life,  to  her  and  that  Hebrew 
juggler  Beak." 

"God!"  said  Droll  again,  "you  wrong  her.  Even  if  this 
were  true,  you  wrong  her.  No  matter  what  Danae  does, 


IN  SEARCH  331 

she  remains  the  same.  She  cannot  sin,  because  she  has  a 
soul  that  dreams,  above  it  all,  far,  far  away." 

Dr.  Penrith  was  inwardly  wrung  at  the  different  manner 
in  which  he,  the  father,  and  this  unrelated  stranger  had 
borne  their  losses  and  wrongs. 

"  Jacopo,  this  Chartreuse  is  beastly.  Bring  me  creme  de 
menthe  and  a  box  of  Egyptians." 

With  his  cigarettes  before  him  the  younger  man  fell  into 
one  of  his  profoundest  moods  of  absorption.  There  was  an 
appointment  due  that  afternoon  between  the  two  men  and 
a  Mrs.  Day,  an  actress  who  was  said  to  be  one  of  Danae's 
friends.  Danae  had  made  few  friends.  Her  life  had  left  so 
few  traces  behind  it  that  they  had  scarcely  found  a  single 
person  who  could  speak  with  authority  of  her  doings. 

Dr.  Penrith  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"Should  we  not  start?"  he  said.  Droll  remained  mo- 
tionless, his  chin  tipped  upward,  his  brown  eyes  staring 
vacantly  across  the  vine-clad  fence.  Dr.  Penrith  spoke  a 
second  time.  Slowly  the  younger  man  turned  his  strange 
gaze  to  the  face  of  the  opposite  man. 

"  I  have  interpreted  the  dream,"  he  said,  "  and  I  find  the 
interpretation  good.  Joseph  Beak  loves  Danae  and  would 
win  her.  He  seeks  the  child.  It  is  the  price  she  demands. 

"  Danae  loves  her  child.  Ah,  that  was  always  the  real 
tragedy.  It  is  over  now,  do  you  not  understand  ?  She  has 
refused  him.  It  is  only  for  the  child's  sake  she  would  have 
him.  Do  you  not  understand?  We  may  win  her  back  if 
we  can  only  find  her.  I  have  heard  that  this  woman 
knew  her  well. " 

Half  an  hour  later  they  rang  the  bell  before  a  brown- 


332  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

stone  house  on  West  Sixtieth  Street.  A  large  and  handsome 
youngish  woman  descended  to  meet  them.  Abruptly  Dr. 
Penrith  met  her  and  without  circumlocution  put  the  well- 
worn  question  that  his  lips  framed  even  in  their  sleep: 

"  What  can  you  tell  me  of  Miss  Field,  Angela  Field  ?  " 

The  woman  could  scarcely  wait  till  the  words  had  left 
his  lips.  Her  answer,  like  her  gesture,  bounded  forth  his- 
trionically. 

"Angela  Field!  I  know  her  well." 

Question  followed  answer  with  lightning  rapidity: 
"Where  is  she?" 

The  woman  was  silent,  a  little  red  creeping  into  her 
round  heavy  cheeks.  She  flung  up  her  hands  with  a  gesture 
of  mingled  compassion  for  them  and  for  herself. 

"You   don't  know?" 

Droll  had  seized  one  of  her  wrists,  a  satiny  wrist,  plump 
as  a  cushion,  but  he  noted  neither  the  texture  nor  the 
fullness.  The  woman  rolled  her  light  gray  eyes  at  him. 

"  Let  go  and  I  will  answer.  You  are  hurting  me." 

"  No  dramatics,  Mrs.  Day,"  said  Droll,  "  Where  is  Miss 
Field?" 

Justinian  was  gripping  hard  at  the  two  sides  of  the 
folding-doors;  Droll's  manner  was  tinged  with  wildness 
and  the  blood  streaked  his  eyes. 

"We  shall  not  leave  this  house  till  we  know  the  lady's 
whereabouts." 

The  woman  waxed  scornful. 

"  By  what  right  do  you  invade  a  strange  house,  gentle- 
men, and  force  your  demands  ?  I  am  not  bound  to  answer 
you,  nor  tell  you  a  thing.  For  the  love  of  heaven,  how  do 


IN  SEARCH  333 

I  know  who  you  are,  or  your  object  or  purpose  with  my 
friend,  Miss  Field?" 

Defiantly  she  swung  open  the  hall  door. 

"I  am  her  father,"  said  Justinian.  "That  is  my  right. 
I  beg  you." 

His  sunken  look,  his  age,  his  sadness,  appealed  to  the 
woman.  For  a  moment  she  wavered.  Then  she  braced  her- 
self and  broke  forth. 

"  You  are  her  father,  sir,  and  I  ask  you,  in  God's  name, 
what  kind  of  father  have  you  been  to  that  poor  girl? 
You  drove  her  from  your  door  with  curses  instead  of  bless- 
ings. You  neglected  her  and  disowned  her  and  forgot  her. 
You  have  been  no  father  to  her.  That  pipe  layer  out  there 
in  the  road,  I  warrant  you,  is  a  better  father  than  you." 

Justinian  bowed  his  head  before  the  woman's  invective. 
He  turned  to  Droll. 

"  Perhaps  she  will  at  least  tell  us  if  my  daughter  is  alive 
or  dead." 

The  woman  spoke  more  softly,  calmed  by  her  own 
vehemence  and  its  result. 

"Sir,  she  is  alive  and  well." 

"  One  question  more  —  You  will  surely  answer  me. 
By  whose  wish  do  you  refuse  me  her  whereabouts  ?  " 

"By  her  own  wish." 

"And  no  one  else's?"  questioned  the  father  sharply. 
His  stern  blue  gaze  uncovered  the  woman's  soul.  She 
lowered  her  lids  and  was  silent.  It  was  impossible  to  lie 
before  that  gaze. 

Justinian  groped  his  way  to  the  door. 

"Let  us  go,  Frederick." 


334  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

He  felt  his  way  down  the  steps,  holding  to  the  carved 
balustrade. 

"  She  is  paid  to  keep  silent,"  said  Droll,  as  they  mounted 
the  stairs  to  the  elevated  train. 

They  swung  around  the  dreary  Fifty-third  Street  loop. 

"  Where  is  Rue  ? "  asked  Frederick  sharply. 

"  I  left  her  at  Lafayette  Place.  She  was  not  to  leave  the 
Place  nor  go  into  any  building  but  the  library." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  she  was  safe." 

Mechanically  the  two  men  watched  the  ever  differing, 
ever  the  same,  glimpses  of  windows  and  street.  The  cat 
infirmary,  the  intelligence  office,  the  dancing-school,  the 
black  faces  thrust  idly  across  window-sills,  anterior  figures 
that  went  about  their  homely  occupations,  a  man  adjusting 
a  cravat,  a  mother  washing  a  child,  a  mulatto  baby  pressing 
its  hands  against  the  grimy  pane,  milk-bottles,  a  row  of 
tomatoes,  a  basket  of  fruit.  Such  intimacies  the  brutal 
train  flashed  upon  them  and  withdrew.  The  passengers 
idly  stared  at  each  kaleidoscopic  exposure,  and  the  exposed 
stared  idly  back.  It  was  give  and  take  of  publicity. 

Frederick  was  in  that  unstrung  state  when  the  disordered 
mind  occupies  itself  with  the  most  fantastic  alarms. 

"  Beak  and  that  actress  woman  are  in  collusion.  He  pays 
her  to  keep  silent." 

"But  why?" 

"He  wishes  to  be  first  with  Danae.  As  long  as  she  is 
unhappy  and  homeless  he  can  offer  her  much.  Then  there 
is  Rue.  He  will  win  his  way  to  the  mother's  heart  through 
Rue.  I  have  the  most  unreasonable  fears  for  Rue's  safety." 

The  train  crawled,  glued  to  a  sluggish  track.  The  stations 


IN  SEARCH  335 

swung  into  sight  with  demoniacal  frequency.  The  train 
lingered  interminably,  seemed  to  groan  under  an  insup- 
portable weight. 

They  took  a  car  at  Eighth  Street.  The  street  car  also 
seemed  in  evil  alliance  with  the  Metropolitan  road,  at  such 
a  nightmare  pace  did  it  traverse  its  course.  The  long 
blocks  between  the  avenues  pulled  themselves  out  with 
ultra-normal  capacity  of  elongation,  like  lengths  of  ribbon 
which  a  conjurer  skilfully  unrolls.  To  Frederick's  over- 
strung nerves  each  incoming  passenger  was  an  insult  and 
he  watched  the  preparations  for  each  departure  with  an 
expression  of  concentrated  intolerance.  University  Place 
thrust  itself  superfluously  between  Fifth  Avenue  and 
Broadway. 

A  clump  of  red-brick  houses  of  distinguished  associa- 
tions are  succeeded  in  little  more  than  a  stone's  throw  by 
Italian  eating  houses  and  barber  shops. 

"How  incredible,"  said  Droll,  "that  decent  people 
should  continue  to  live  in  this  quarter." 

And  next: 

"  What  business  have  these  shop-mongers  to  set  up  their 
dirty  business  in  such  a  neighborhood?" 

He  was  not  in  a  mood  to  be  pleased  with  externals, 
whatever  extreme  offered  itself.  This  acute  irritability  was 
a  most  salient  sign  of  his  anguished  spirit.  But  Justinian, 
sunk  in  deep  thought,  said  never  a  word. 

Men  must  live  for  one  or  both  of  two  ends:  for  love's 
sake  or  for  worldly  honor.  There  is  besides  an  inner  and 
less  explicable  motive  which  resides  in  a  few,  in  those 
whom  we  call  geniuses  and  in  some  others,  the  inwrought 


336  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

necessity  of  their  natures,  impelling  them  to  this  or  that 
pursuit.  A  man's  life  must  be  judged  according  as  it 
approaches  or  falls  short  of  the  end  he  himself  has  set. 
Justinian  Penrith's  life  had  been  governed  by  the  two  ends, 
love  and  worldly  honor.  Proud,  gifted  and  loving,  he  had 
set  forth  in  his  indomitable  youth.  He  had  now  come  nearly 
to  life's  close.  And  with  what  result?  Judged  by  either 
standard,  he  had  failed.  With  a  little  less  of  this  or  more  of 
the  other  quality,  the  trend  of  a  life  may  be  radically 
altered.  It  is  by  so  little,  so  little,  that  we  miss  the  mark. 
And  yet,  as  the  homely  proverb  goes,  "  a  miss  is  as  good  as 
a  mile."  It  is  no  mitigation,  it  is  aggravation  to  know  that 
a  hair's-breadth,  more  or  less,  would  have  won. 

These  were  the  crushing  thoughts  that  visited  the  old 
man.  More  than  one  passenger  on  the  east-bound  car 
noted  the  terrible  sadness  of  his  abstracted  gaze. 

As  for  Frederick  Droll,  he,  too,  seemed  to  have  done 
with  things.  His  wayward  and  eccentric  life  and  his  broken 
health  had  gradually  robbed  him  both  of  the  capacity 
for  enjoyment  and  the  end  to  be  enjoyed. 

To  both  men,  Rue,  with  her  divine  innocence  of  past  and 
future,  her  tender  promise  and  her  reminder  of  unforgetable 
loves,  was  salvation.  They  arrived  at  Lafayette  Place  to 
find  her  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 
BABBIE'S  SUBCONSCIOUS  MIND 

DANAE  PENRITH  and  Babbie  Day  had  been 
friends  ever  since  they  first  met  behind  the  scenes 
at  a  Broadway  theater  years  before.  The  ad- 
vances had  been  all  on  Babbie's  side.  To  her  buoyant, 
robust,  city-bred  nature  there  had  been  something  irresist- 
ibly appealing  in  the  childlike  naivete  and  unworldly 
temper  of  country-bred  Danae.  The  mystery  in  which 
Danae  wrapped  herself,  the  reserve  that  was  never  broken, 
heightened  the  charm  and  strengthened  the  duration  of 
this  friendship.  It  is  an  indispensable  element  of  enduring 
friendship  that  mutual  revelation  should  not  be  too  lavish, 
the  intimacy  not  too  searching. 

Danae  had  never  unveiled  her  soul.  She  was  to  Babbie 
Day  still  the  mysterious  nymph-like  girl  whose  gaiety 
brought  the  tears  to  one's  eyes  during  the  pallid 
mid-morning  rehearsals  on  the  dismantled  stage  of  the 
theater. 

Babbie's  loyalty  and  tenacity  achieved  in  the  end 
their  purpose.  Danae  could  not  resist  her  friendliness, 
and  thus  she  had  never  been  allowed  to  slip  out  of 
Babbie's  life. 

The  loveliness  of  Joppa  village  and  the  Jerusalem  valley 
haunted  Danae,  even  during  the  garish  theater  days,  and 

337 


338  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

once  she  had  talked  to  Babbie  about  the  Jerusalem  river 
and  the  Twin  Mountains. 

"Places  I  visited  once,  when  I  was  little,"  she  said. 

But  who  took  her  there  or  what  her  childhood's  setting 
had  been  she  never  divulged.  And  Babbie  accepted  this 
reticence;  in  part,  one  grew  used  to  not  knowing  the 
backward  perspective  of  lives  in  their  profession.  In  part, 
it  seemed  to  belong  to  Angela,  this  air  of  having  sprung 
from  nowhere;  of  being  a  creature  parentless,  without 
a  past  or  a  history.  Danae  was  Angela  Field  to  Babbie 
as  to  all  her  professional  comrades.  Whether  it  were  her 
right  name  or  not  had  never  become  even  a  matter  of 
conjecture. 

After  Danae's  illness  the  home-call  sounded  irresistibly 
in  her  heart.  The  white  steeple  of  Joppa,  the  sweet  curves 
of  the  river,  the  water-lilies,  the  hemlocks,  the  worn  cattle- 
paths  on  the  Twin  Mountains,  the  transfigured  light  on 
the  Shining  Hill,  the  tree  that  always  looked  like  a  cross, 
slanted  sideways  and  lonely  on  its  hill  crest  against  the 
sunset !  These  came  to  Danae,  called  to  her  with  an  almost 
human  earnestness.  The  home  people  she  dreaded,  she 
loved  them,  yet  they  stood  aloof  from  her.  But  the  haunts 
of  her  home  were  informed  with  homehood's  memories,  and 
Danae  thought  she  would  be  less  lonely  if  she  could 
rest  her  eyes  once  more  on  the  loved  familiar  country's 
face' 

The  Red  Bungalow  and  its  companion  houses  had  been 
built  by  a  group  of  young  men,  of  the  actor-playwright 
persuasion,  who  had  lived  on  the  hills  for  several  summers, 
hunted,  fished,  idled,  written,  and  had  themselves  formed 


BABBIE'S  SUBCONSCIOUS  MIND         339 

no  part  of  the  closely-knitted  lives  of  the  inhabitants. 
Jermyn  Day  had  been  one  of  this  actor-playwright  group. 
He  was  a  writer  of  vaudeville  sketches  and,  after  his 
marriage  to  Babbie,  it  seemed  the  natural  thing  that  the 
Red  Bungalow  should  occur  to  their  mind  as  the  retreat 
for  Angela  during  her  convalescence. 

So  it  happened  that  the  previous  spring  good-hearted 
Babbie  packed  her  off  for  the  hills  with  her  boy  Ned  and 
a  maid  who  speedily  deserted  them.  And  Danae,  still 
preserving  the  incognita  which  had  grown  to  be  second 
nature  to  her,  gladly  fell  in  with  Babbie's  plan,  but  dropped 
no  hint  that  she  was  returning  to  the  home  of  her  child- 
hood. From  the  porch  of  the  Red  Bungalow  she  could  see 
the  Shining  Hill  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  the  waving 
meadows  where  the  bobolinks  dipped  and  warbled,  and 
the  hemlock  grove  beyond  and  above  which  stood  in  its 
orchard  nest  the  lavender  house  with  green  blinds. 

Once  she  had  wandered  to  the  Peter  Kenyon  place,  but 
no  nearer  than  that  had  she  dared  approach  Penrith  House. 
On  the  day  of  that  memorable  visit  she  met  her  own  little 
daughter  in  the  deserted  garden,  since  which  time  the 
fierceness  of  homesickness  and  of  mother-love  had  laid 
their  inexorable  demand  upon  her  heart. 

It  had  been  impossible  for  her  wholly  to  keep  from 
Babbie  the  history  of  Joseph  Beak's  pursuit  of  her.  Joseph 
Beak,  also  surmising  that  he  could  find  a  coadjutor,  had 
taken  Mrs.  Day  into  his  confidence.  Between  the  two 
she  stood,  knowing  a  little  on  either  side,  pledged  to  secrecy 
on  either  side,  and  not  sufficiently  cognizant  to  under- 
stand. From  Beak  she  learned  of  Angela's  previous  marri- 


340  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

age,  of  her  child,  and  of  the  unforgiving  father  whose  stern- 
ness denied  her  the  home  returning.  She  gathered  that 
Beak  was  scheming  to  get  the  child  in  order  to  win  Angela's 
gratitude  and  favor. 

Beak  found  out  that  Mrs.  Day  had  met  the  father  and 
that  she  knew  of  the  father's  relenting  mood  and  of  his 
search  for  his  daughter. 

"Do  me  a  great  service,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Day.  "We 
both  love  Angela.  I  want  her  happiness  as  well  as  you  do. 
But  do  not  tell  her  of  this  meeting.  Let  me  be  the  one  to 
break  the  news  to  her.  Give  me  a  chance  to  win  her  first. 
For  if  the  reconciliation  takes  place,  if  she  has  again  her 
father  and  her  child,  I  shall  be  utterly  thrust  aside.  By 
such  whims  are  women's  hearts  swayed  and  swerved." 

This  was  in  substance  what  the  great  manager  said  to 
one  of  his  force.  Babbie  Day  was  used  to  an  attitude  of 
submission  where  Beak  and  Blumenthein  were  concerned. 
Their  suggestions  had  the  force  of  decrees.  Their  hints 
were  ukases.  She  had  never  but  once  in  her  life  witnessed 
mutiny  in  the  ranks  of  Beak  and  Blumenthein.  It  had 
been  in  the  case  of  a  spirited  leading  man.  Degradation 
from  ranks  had  followed.  She  herself  had  never  openly 
opposed  him  in  any  particular.  She  had,  during  Danae's 
illness  and  convalescence,  kept  from  him  news  of  her 
whereabouts.  But  he  did  not  know  that  she  knew.  In  com- 
pensatory docility,  she  had  kept  the  same  information  from 
Justinian  Penrith,  a  reserve  that  was  involved,  though  not 
specifically,  in  her  promise  to  Angela.  But  now  a  new 
motive  asserted  itself  in  Babbie  Day's  mind  —  in  that 
complicated  mental  realm,  peopled  by  ancestral  shadows 


BABBIE'S  SUBCONSCIOUS  MIND        341 

and  the  burrowing  mole-like  things  which  we  call  habits. 

If  she  brought  Angela  to  her  father  by  giving  either 
father  or  daughter  a  hint  of  the  other's  mood  and  desire 
—  what  would  be  the  result  for  herself?  Nothing  could 
in  the  end  escape  the  relentless  logic  of  Joseph  Beak ;  relent- 
less in  hunting  down  to  its  last  stand  each  straying  inad- 
vertence, in  tracing  back  to  its  humblest  origin  each  clue. 

If  he  should  discover  that  she  had  been  for  a  year  in 
possession  of  a  secret  denied  to  him,  no  punishment 
would  be  too  great  for  her  defiance.  And  in  Joseph 
Beak's  eyes,  no  promises,  except  those  made  to  himself, 
had  value. 

Babbie  Day,  not  understanding  Danae,  could  not  under- 
stand her  reluctance  to  accede  to  Beak's  courtship.  She 
had  the  average  woman's  desire  to  see  her  friend  happily 
married.  Marriage  with  Joseph  Beak,  both  from  the  pro- 
fessional and  from  the  material  standpoint,  would  realize 
the  acme  of  an  average  woman's  ambition.  Therefore, 
many  motives  were  combined,  the  egoistic,  the  romantic, 
the  altruistic,  and  the  purely  material,  to  induce  her  com- 
pliance with  Joseph  Beak. 

She  was  sorely  tried  that  day  when  the  anguish  in  the 
old  father's  face  assaulted  her.  To  fortify  her  waning 
resolution,  she  had  burst  into  the  impetuous  and  ill- 
mannered  tirade.  A  rapid-fire  of  rudeness  is  often  the  sign 
of  compassion  aroused.  It  befogs  the  air  with  a  smudge  of 
personality  behind  which  souls  may  hide  themselves. 

From  such  complexity  of  purpose  do  human  actions 
proceed  that  it  is  doubtful  if  a  single  event  of  consequence 
may  be  laid  at  the  door  of  any  one  impulse  or  emotion. 


XXXVIII 
THE  SLEEPING  CHILD 

DANAE  the  whimsical,  the  elusive,  stood  in  Joseph 
Beak's  home  by  Rue's  bedside.  Down-stairs  in 
the  stately  drawing-room,  scented  with  hot-house 
roses,  the  impatient  manager  paced  up  and  down.  The 
minister  was  there  who  was  to  perform  the  ceremony. 
But  Danae,  captured  at  last  (was  she  really  captured,  was 
his  ?),  hung  above  the  sleeping  child.  A  tear  stained  the 
little  girl's  cheek,  but  she  smiled.  Her  eyes  were  not  quite 
shut;  a  tint  of  the  violet  darkened  under  the  long  lashes. 
The  soft  lips  with  the  dent  in  the  middle  parted  as  she 
breathed  and  all  the  relaxed  little  body  spoke  of  inno- 
cence and  abandon.  Dear,  sleeping  child!  Is  there 
anything  lovelier,  more  lovable  than  a  child's  sleep?  A 
field  of  violets,  a  dreaming  cloud  above  a  hill's  edge,  a 
slender  moon  in  the  twilight  green  of  sky,  a  fawn  in  the 
forest,  a  woodland  pool  played  upon  by  sun  and  shadow, 
the  crescent  of  the  young  tide  on  a  rainbow  beach,  a  bird 
song  in  the  hush  before  the  dawn ;  not  one  of  these  has 
the  sweetness,  the  sadness,  the  purity,  the  promise  of  a 
child's  sleep. 

All  the  pretty  little  turmoils  and  tenderness,  the  dear 
trust  and  the  prophetic  passions,  the  infinite  helplessness 
and  the  infinite  individuality,  how  they  reach  out  to  us 

342 


THE  SLEEPING  CHILD  343 

with  fingers  that  cling  like  the  child's  own,  appealing  to  us 
like  a  prayer,  bending  over  us  like  heaven. 

"  And  all  this  sweetness  is  mine,"  said  Danae. 

But  she  shuddered  when  she  smelled  the  heavy  scent  of 
roses  from  below  and  she  cringed  like  a  thief  at  the  thought 
of  her  father. 

"  Had  he  in  truth  consented  ?  " 

Quick  as  a  flash  came  her  decision.  She  would  know  at 
first  hand,  before  she  took  the  awful  step  of  marriage- 
With  characteristic  impulsiveness  she  carried  out  her 
decision.  An  apparition  in  pale  blue  flitted  through  the 
candle-light  and  brilliant  gloom  of  the  drawing-room. 
She  went  straight  to  Beak.  He  caught  her  to  him,  but  she 
resisted. 

"  Let  go  my  hand  and  let  me  speak.  I  cannot  be  married 
in  this  way,  alone  like  this.  I  must  have  friends  of  mine 
here." 

"  The  servants  are  ready,  they  will  witness." 

"  No,  no,  friends  of  mine.  Where  is  Barbara  Day  ? " 

"Must  you  ?  Then  I  will  send  for  her." 

"No,  Mr.  Beak,  I  must  go  for  her  myself.  It  is  my  last 
request,  I  mean  the  last  before  —  before  —  we  are  —  be- 
fore —  that. " 

Almost  in  terror  her  wide  eyes  indicated  the  prayer- 
book  on  the  lapis-lazuli  table,  near  which  stood  the  rose- 
tree  and  the  somber  priest  in  black. 

"  I  will  go  for  her  myself.  There  is  a  cab  outside,"  she 
said. 

Mr.  Beak  seized  her  gently  by  the  little  trembling  hands. 
He  faced  her  to  him,  steadied  his  eyes  upon  the  pale 


344  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

luminous  face,  her  look  of  blue  autumn  mist  and  golden 
haze. 

"  Danae,  Danae,  I  shall  not  lose  you." 

"Let  me  go;  I  will  come  back." 

She  had  slipped  from  his  arms  and  was  out  of  the  heavy 
front  door  while  the  somber  figure  in  black  stared  and  the 
peeping  lackeys  muttered. 

It  was  but  a  few  minutes  drive  to  Mrs.  Day's  number 
on  West  Sixtieth  Street. 

"Quick,  Babbie,  I  am  going  to  be  married  to-night  to 
Joseph  Beak." 

"  You  happy  girl !  Tell  me  —  " 

"Don't  congratulate  me  in  heaven's  name,  Babbie.  I 
am  driven  to  it  for  my  child's  sake.  I  want  you  to  help  me- 
He  has  taken  Rue  from  me,  he  says  with  father's  consent. 
I  could  never  be  happy,  never  forgive  myself  if  the  child 
were  stolen." 

"  Angela,  you  are  crazy,  the  child  is  yours,  whether  you 
get  her  by  hook  or  crook." 

"  Never  mind,  Babbie,  some  day  I  might  get  her  myself 
if  I  went  to  Father.  I  am  not  ready  to  go  to  him  now.  I  am 
afraid.  But  if  Beak  has  stolen  her  I  will  not  have  him.  It 
would  kill  Father.  I  will  give  Rue  back  to  him  till  I  — 
am  ready." 

All  this  came  in  a  whirl  between  the  two  women. 

"  I  will  send  him  a  note  —  oh,  where  is  he  ?  " 

"  Who  in  mercy's  name,  Angela  ?  You  are  clean  mad." 

"No,  I  am  not  mad,  give  me  time  to  think.  Father, 
where  used  he  to  stay  in  New  York?  Lafayette  Place,  I 


THE  SLEEPING  CHILD  345 

cannot  remember  the  number,  opposite  the  library,  you 
know.  Send  your  boy,  let  him  try  every  number." 

"  Is  your  father's  name  Field  ?  Calm  yourself,  Angela. 
You  have  not  told  me  enough.  What  shall  Ned  do,  what 
shall  he  say?" 

Danae  sat  down  at  Mrs.  Day's  desk  and  scribbled  on  a 
sheet  of  note-paper. 

"Father—  "  she  crossed  it  out.  "No,  that  will  not  do; 
he  must  not  know  it  comes  from  me."  She  began  again: 
"  Do  you  willingly  and  freely  —  "  Again,  "  Hereby,  willingly 
and  freely  I  resign  my  adopted  granddaughter  Rue  to  the 
guardianship  of  Joseph  Beak. 

"(Please  sign  here.)"  Her  wild  handwriting  sprawled 
over  the  pinkish  page. 

"  There,  Ned,  take  it  and  quick  with  it,  as  you  love  your 
mother  and  me." 

Lillo  was  dancing  up  and  down  in  his  eagerness  to  be  off 
on  this  exciting  mission. 

"Tell  him  whom  to  ask  for,  Angela,"  said  Barbara 
Day's  more  collected  voice. 

"  Dr.  Justinian  Penrith,  Lafayette  Place.  Bring  back  his 
signature,  do  you  understand?" 

The  boy  did  not  understand  except  that  he  was  messen- 
ger in  great  affairs.  He  bounded  out  of  the  house  like  a 
winged  Mercury. 

"Babbie,  can  you  give  me  a  different  gown  to  wear? 
We  will  take  it  with  us  in  a  box  and  you  will  help  me  dress 
over  there.  It  will  be  an  excuse  for  delaying  the  ceremony 
till  your  Ned  returns." 


XXXIX 
THE  ANONYMOUS  MESSAGE 

ALL  the  agencies  known  in  a  great  city  for  the  re- 
covery of  lost  children  were  set  to  work.  The 
police  stations  of  every  precinct  were  notified. 
Frederick  went  to  the  central  station  down  Broadway  to 
look  over  the  group  of  small  strayed  creatures  that  the 
matron  cares  for  every  night.  Big,  frightened  eyes,  little 
stained  faces,  sooty  frocks,  sobs  or  foreign   baby-talk  — 
there  was  no  Rue  among  their  number. 

The  people  in  the  Lafayette  Place  house  were  endlessly 
kind.  Beyond  the  darkened  white  and  gold  of  the  old- 
fashioned  drawing-room  was  the  warm,  cook-odorous, 
heavily  draped  dining-room,  where  the  guests  were  wont 
to  assemble  under  the  ample  leadership  of  the  house's  head. 
The  thin,  falcon-faced  librarian  from  an  East-Side  branch 
library;  the  tiny,  high-browed  lady  who  wrote  for  a  church 
paper;  a  large-eyed  young  girl  who  studied  at  a  "Bible" 
training  school ;  a  young  dentist  who  read  stock  reports  while 
he  nervously  ate,  and  the  inevitable  grass-widow  with  mirac- 
ulously golden  hair  and  a  husband  in  abeyance,  who  made 
eyes  at  the  young  dentist  because  he  was  the  only  trousered 
being  eligible, —  these,  the  aimlessly  combined  members  of 
that  dismal  social  group  known  as  a  boarding-house,  were 
without  exception  upset  and  agitated  by  the  misfortune. 

346 


THE  ANONYMOUS  MESSAGE  347 

"  Our  youngest!"  the  wavy  lady  moaned,  real  tears  well- 
ing up  beneath  her  suspiciously  dark  lashes. 

The  falcon-faced  librarian  went  out  with  Grandfather 
to  hunt  the  neighboring  streets.  The  ample  Head  of  Our 
Family  searched  the  whole  house  to  see  if  by  chance  "  our 
child"  had  hidden  herself  and  fallen  asleep  in  some  un- 
expected nook  of  the  big  house.  The  large-eyed  Bible 
student  cried  by  herself  as  she  ate  a  dutiful  supper. 

The  golden  lady  addressed  strenuous  conjectures  to 
the  nervous  dentist,  her  vis-a-vis. 

The  tiny,  high-browed  editor,  because  of  her  dislike  for 
the  dubious  widow,  repressed  an  inclination  to  join  in  the 
anxious  talk.  The  waitresses  wiped  their  eyes  as  they  passed 
the  dishes  and  said,  "  La-la,"  out  in  the  kitchen. 

The  friendly  policeman  on  the  beat  dropped  in  from 
time  to  time  to  learn  if  the  little  girl  had  been  found. 

It  was  nearing  nine  o'clock,  and  no  news  yet  of  Rue. 

Grandfather  returned  with  weary  step,  but  he  knew  as 
he  pressed  his  latch-key  into  its  aperture  that  the  house 
held  no  good  news.  What  if  the  night  should  pass  and  no 
news  come  ?  What  if  Rue  should  never  return  to  him  ? 

The  city,  Our  Lady  of  Glittering  Lights,  seemed  to  him 
a  hideous  monster,  whose  bosom  was  strung  with  a  burn- 
ing necklace  of  human  lives.  The  people  who  gathered 
in  the  hall  and  drawing-rooms  had  nothing  to  say  before 
his  grief.  Even  the  wavy  lady's  gush  of  sympathy  was 
quenched.  She  rubbed  her  eyes  in  silence. 

Then  came  an  imperious  ring  at  the  door  that  startled 
the  household.  A  half  dozen  people  flew  to  answer  the 
summons. 


348  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

A  boy  rushed  in,  damp-haired,  bright-eyed,  panting.  He 
thrust  a  note  into  Dr.  Penrith's  hand.  Scarcely  had  the 
old  man  had  time  to  read  it  when  the  boy  caught  him  by 
the  sleeve. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you  outside,"  he  whispered,  "whar 
them  rubbernecks  won't  hear." 

Dr.  Penrith  followed  him  to  the  steps. 

"You'd  better  come  up  with  me  and  see  what's  doing," 
said  Lillo.  "I  think  it's  your  daughter  wanting  you,  but 
you  dassen't  tell  them  I  told  you." 

With  a  quick  jerk  of  his  thumb  he  indicated  the  far- 
away hostile  Beak  on  Riverside  Drive. 

"  My  daughter  ?  My  granddaughter  Rue,  you  mean." 

Dr.  Penrith  turned  to  the  note  again.  Its  swiftly-read 
meaning  had  already  escaped  him. 

"Are  you  her  grandfather,  the  queer  little  girl  of  the 
violets?" 

"  Rue,  Rue ! "  said  Dr.  Penrith,  dazed  by  the  boy's  own 
confusion.  "  Is  it  she  you  mean,  or  another  ?  " 

The  best  he  could  do  was  to  take  the  Riverside  address 
and  let  Lillo  act  as  his  adviser.  Neither  knew  what  the 
upshot  would  be. 

Little  Ned  Day,  with  his  open  and  generous  nature, 
had  learned  as  much  astuteness  as  generally  falls  to 
the  lot  of  a  much  older  boy.  Scornful  of  deception  and 
evasion,  impetuous  to  right  wrong  and  to  comfort  the 
wounded,  he  felt  that  here  was  a  tangle  which  was  beyond 
him  to  unravel.  He  dashed  ahead  of  his  companion  as  they 
left  the  elevated  station  and  flung  his  way  into  the  Beak 
drawing-room  with  a  mingling  of  bravado  and  accusation. 


THE  ANONYMOUS  MESSAGE  349 

"I've  found  him,"  he  shouted,  "and  the  whole  house 
was  standing  on  its  head.  Some  old  cats  was  a-crying  in 
a  corner  of  the  hall,  and  a  bunch  more  gabbin'  on  the 
stairs,  and  there's  a  little  girl  lost.  That's  what!  And  it's 
Rue.  And  you've  kidnapped  her.  And  I  know  who  she  is 
and  I'm  goin'  to  tell  it  all  out.  That's  what!" 

He  was  out  of  breath,  half  crying,  before  he  noticed  the 
awful  face  of  Beak  frowning  on  him,  and  his  mother's 
frightened  gesture. 

Beak  had  him  by  one  arm  and  Beak's  valet  by  the  other, 
and  together  they  dragged  the  little  fellow  into  the  safe 
precincts  of  the  buttery,  and  so  to  the  basement. 

"Where's  the  message,  darling?"  asked  Mrs.  Day, 
trembling  and  guilty  before  her  son's  stormy  gray  eyes. 
She  always  called  him  "  Darling "  at  these  judicial  crises. 

"  I  tell  you  he's  a-coming  — 

An  electric  bell  sounded  in  the  servants'  quarters. 

"That's  him,"  cried  triumphant  Lillo,  his  voice  being 
audible  to  no  one  but  himself  and  the  butler. 

Barbara  was  voluble  while  Danae  dallied  with  her 
laces  and  ribbons,  her  heart  aflame  and  her  hands  like 
ice.  Barbara's  gown  that  she  wore,  much  too  voluminous 
for  her,  was  of  white  lace,  tissue  over  tissue,  with  shimmer 
of  creamy  silk  and  glint  of  satiny  velvet  at  waist  and  neck- 
band. Danae  moved  within  it  like  some  miraculous  fairy 
in  the  heart  of  a  full-blown  white  rose. 

"  I  never  saw  you  so  beautiful,"  said  Barbara. 

"It  is  my  wedding  night,"  returned  Danae,  with  a 
strange,  sick  smile. 

They  heard  Mr.  Beak's  quick,  powerful  tread  on  the 


350  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

stairs.  There  is  something  redolent  of  character  in  a  per- 
son's tread.  Almost  every  trait,  vigor,  persistence,  fraility, 
languor,  cruelty,  good-nature,  melancholy,  thrift,  speaks 
in  the  rhythm  of  the  feet. 

"Danae,"  he  said,  "why  are  you  waiting?  Come." 

His  heart  was  like  a  stone  in  his  bosom  for  fear  that 
now  at  the  last  moment  he  had  lost  her.  She  had  never 
been  more  alluring. 

"You  would  not  command  me?"  she  smiled  faintly 
into  his  unsmiling  eyes. 

'*  I  do  not  command  you,  my  darling,  I  beg  of  you.  Pity 
my  suffering." 

Danae  responded  to  the  passion  of  his  voice.  "  I  have 
sent  a  message  and  I  must  wait  for  the  answer." 

"  What  message  ?  " 

"  A  last  message.     I  have  written  to  my  father." 

Beak's  face  flew  into  an  expressive  sneer  as  he  tossed 
off  a  dry  laugh.  A  premonition  of  his  own  defeat  threno- 
died  in  his  breast. 

"  His  answer  came."  He  spoke  with  quick  cunning. 

"  What  answer,  what  answer  ?  "  Danae  in  her  feverish- 
ness  laid  her  hands  on  Beak's  shoulders  and  not  till  his 
arm  encircled  her  did  she  realize  his  nearness  to  her. 

"  My  poor  Danae,  darling !  Let  me  spare  you  your 
father's  answer." 

Beak,  in  his  tortuous  mind,  still  sought  for  the  probable 
substance  of  Danae's  message  to  her  father. 

The  woman  drew  herself  from  him  with  cold  dignity. 

"  Let  Ned  bring  me  my  answer.  I  shall  be  satisfied  to 
receive  it  from  his  hand  only." 


THE  ANONYMOUS  MESSAGE  3ol 

"You  do  not  believe  me!"  Beak  spoke  with  the  out- 
raged pride  of  the  self-righteous  liar.  "  How  can  I  per- 
suade you  ?  Ned  is  not  in  the  house.  I  can  only  repeat 
the  message  he  brought." 

Danae  turned  from  Beak  to  Babbie  Day  and  then  to 
Beak  again. 

"Oh,  I  can't  believe  you,  either  of  you,"  she  cried. 
"  You  are  fooling  me,  you  are  torturing  me." 

Her  voice  had  risen  hi  her  pain  and  doubt.  It  pierced 
to  the  chamber  where  Rue  slept.  A  long  sigh  and 
a  murmur  of  dream-babble  came  from  the  sleeping 
child.  Beak  drew  aside  the  portieres,  beckoning  Danae  to 
his  side. 

"Shall  we  cherish  this  flower  as  our  own?"  he  said. 
"  Shall  we  give  her  all  that  the  world  has  to  bestow  ?" 

Danae's  face  softened  and  broke.  But  at  that  crucial 
moment,  a  door  sprang  open  in  a  lower  part  of  the  house 
and  a  boy's  imperious  voice  rang. 

"  Let  me  go  to  Angela.  I  will  tell  — ' 

That  was  all.  The  slam  of  a  door  syncopated  the  frag- 
ment. It  was  enough. 

"  You  have  deceived  me,"  cried  Danae.  "  Ned  is  in  the 
house.  He  has  brought  me  a  message  you  do  not  want  me 
to  hear." 

Danae  ran  to  another  room  and  began  tearing  at  the 
white  velvet  bands  that  bound  her  neck  and  waist.  Mr. 
Beak  followed  her  to  the  doorway,  ashy,  leaden-eyed. 

"You  have  deceived  me,"  she  cried  again.  "You  stole 
my  little  Rue,  his  little  Rue.  He  is  looking  for  her  now. 
He  is  crazed  with  terror,  I  know." 


352  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"What  matter,  he  cannot  rob  you  of  her,  for  she  is 
yours." 

"  She  is  not  mine  till  I  ask  him." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  my  child,  my  wife  ?  " 

"I  am  not  your  wife.  Thank  heaven,  I  am  free  to 
leave  you." 

Then  a  new  excitement  prevailed  in  the  hall  below. 
A  new  arrival,  Grandfather!  Danae  heard  his  voice. 
Half  disarrayed  as  she  was,  her  many  laces  falling  in  a 
cloud  about  her  bare  shoulders,  she  closed  the  door  be- 
tween him  and  her,  but  she  clung  to  the  handle  and 
listened. 

If  her  father  would  only  speak  her  name,  if  she  could 
catch  a  note  of  love  or  relenting,  she  would  run  to  him, 
throw  herself  on  his  breast,  lose  herself  in  a  torrent  of 
grief  and  forgiveness. 

A  hundred  times  hi  the  space  of  a  minute  Danae  re- 
solved to  cast  all  fears  to  the  wind  and  rush  to  her  father's 
arms.  A  hundred  tunes  she  unchanged  her  resolution. 
Now  was  scarcely  the  time  for  a  reconciliation.  She,  in  a 
strange  house,  a  strange  man's  house,  and  Rue  stolen ! 
There  would  be  too  much  to  explain.  Father  will  never 
understand.  There  will  always  be  too  much  to  explain. 

"  I  have  come  for  my  child,"  said  the  stern  voice. 

"Your  child?" 

"Show  me  to  her  at  once." 

"I  beg  to  explain;  this  is  not  my  fault." 

Their  steps  were  on  the  polished  stairs.  Even  the 
pauses  were  fearful  with  animosity,  suppressed  wrath  and 
hatred. 


THE  ANONYMOUS  MESSAGE  353 

"I  wish  for  no  explanation." 

"The  child  was  lost,  I  did  not  have  your  address,  I 
cared  for  her." 

Mr.  Beak's  sentences  were  broken  but  his  voice  was 
steady. 

"I  thank  you,  sir,  for  your  kindness."  The  tone  cut 
to  the  very  marrow. 

Danae  tottered,  swayed,  but  still  clung  to  the  door. 
Then  the  wailing  of  a  little  child  was  heard,  a  little  child 
suddenly  awakened  from  sleep.  Grandfather's  deep  voice 
sounded.  The  tears  rained  down  Danae's  white  cheeks. 

"Grandfather,  you  will  not  punish  me  this  time?" 
said  Rue's  wistful  voice.  "  I  did  not  mean  to  be  naughty, 
really  and  truly,  Grandfather." 

Again  sounded  a  tread  on  the  stairs  and  the  older  man 
carried  a  little  form  against  his  shoulders.  The  child's 
voice  spoke  again  before  the  opening  of  the  door. 

"  He  said  I  would  find  my  pretty  mother." 

The  heavy  front  door  was  shut  and  the  voices  ceased. 

Danae,  the  tears  raining  down  her  face,  crouched  in  a 
heap  amid  the  fallen  petals  of  her  raiment,  uttering  not 
a  sound. 


XL 
THE  INTERPRETATION 

GRANDFATHER  said  little  on  the  return  journey. 
With  Rue's  hand  in  his  he  strode  from  the  bril- 
liantly lighted  Sixth  Avenue  car  to  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street.  They  stood  in  silence  on  the  corner 
waiting  for  their  transfer. 

"  You  are  shaking,  Rue.  Are  you  cold  ? " 

"No,  Grandfather,  but  New  York  is  shiny  and 
large  and  lonely  at  night.  And  the  people  have  such 
withered  faces.  It's  not  like  day  at  all.  Are  we  almost 
there?" 

"This  car  will  take  us  by  the  door,  don't  you  remem- 
ber?" 

They  were  on  another  car  now  and  Grandfather  again 
was  silent.  Rue,  with  sidelong  glances,  watched  his  face. 
The  silence  of  a  grown-up  person,  after  events  in  which 
you  have  taken  an  unusual  part,  is  puzzling,  riot  to  say 
sinister.  Grandfather's  expression  was  forbidding.  There 
were  deep  lines  in  his  cheeks.  The  tears  rose  to  Rue's 
throat  and  choked  her.  Grandfather  turned  a  shadowy 
eye  upon  her. 

"You  are  crying,  Rue." 

"No,  Grandfather,"  Rue  wiped  away  the  unwelcome 
tears.  "  The  car  going  so  hard  just  joggled  them  out  of  me. 

354 


THE  INTERPRETATION  355 

And,  look,  Grandfather,  I've  got  a  daub  of  inud  on  my 
lovely  Constantinople  cloak." 

She  swallowed  a  sob  in  her  throat.  She  was  not  really 
grieved  about  the  mud  daub,  but  a  change  of  topic  was 
necessary.  Grandfather  glanced  not  at  all  at  the  mud- 
daub. 

He  was  smoothing  out  a  crumpled  sheet  of  pinkish 
paper.  Something  familiar  began  to  illumine  the  irregular 
lines  of  the  writing.  His  daughter's  character  flickered 
faintly  through  the  script.  Did  he  really  hold  in  his  hand 
a  message  from  Danae,  a  message  from  Danae  to  himself  ? 
If  she  sent  him  the  message  was  it  of  her  free-will  ?  Was 
she  in  Joseph  Beak's  house?  Why  did  she  not  appear? 
Why  did  she  wish  her  little  Rue  given  over  to  Beak's 
guardianship  ?  Was  she  an  unwilling  prisoner  ?  Was  she 
Beak's  tool  or  his  wife  ?  Was  Danae  in  her  right  mind  ? 

Grandfather  listened  abstractedly  to  Rue's  account  of 
her  own  wanderings,  of  the  drive  in  the  Park  with  Miss 
Bernstein,  and  of  how  the  polite  man  had  taken  her  to  his 
house,  because  they  did  not,  either  of  them,  know  the  name 
of  the  street  where  she  ought  to  go. 

"He  sent  me  up  a  beautiful  supper  on  a  silver  tray, 
Grandfather.  But  I  couldn't  eat  much  because  everything 
tasted  of  the  tears  in  my  throat.  I  thought  you  acted  very 
solemn,  Grandfather.  Were  you  angry  with  him  or  with 
me?  It  was  not  his  fault,  so  please  do  not  be  angry  with 
him.  He  was  just  as  polite  to  me  as  if  I  was  a  grown-up 
person." 

Rue  did  not  tell  her  grandfather  about  the  private  con- 
versation she  had  with  Mr.  Beak  in  the  early  after- 


356  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

noon.  That  was  an  intimacy  it  would  be  treacherous  to 
divulge.  The  pretty  mother,  the  pretty  mother!  Would 
they  ever  really  find  her  face,  Grandfather  and  Rue? 
Perhaps,  pretty  mothers  did  not  grow,  after  all,  in  the 
"dark  depths  of  a  great  town. " 

Frederick's  white  face  greeted  them  in  the  doorway. 
The  hall  was  full  of  people;  a  policeman,  the  same 
who  had  escorted  Rue  to  the  polite  man,  and  ladies 
whispering  and  weeping.  They  ah1  seemed  very  glad  to 
see  Grandfather. 

"  Oh,  there  he  is.  Oh,  here  they  come,"  and  "  Look  at 
her,"  they  cried. 

"The  angel!"  a  lady  said  when  Rue  stepped  over  the 
threshold  of  the  door. 

Rue  looked  round  her.  It  would  not  have  been  much 
more  astounding  to  see  a  white-robed  winged  One  wiping 
his  feet  on  the  door-mat  than  some  of  the  other  recent 
happenings  had  been.  But  no  one  except  the  policeman 
stood  on  the  door-mat. 

Grandfather,  with  very  few  words  to  the  household, 
took  Rue  to  her  room.  Vast  and  somber  and  empty  it 
looked  with  its  tiny  fireplace,  high  ceiling  and  tall- 
posted  bed.  One  little  candle  burned  on  a  marble 
table. 

"Oh,  Grandfather,  you  are  not  angry  with  me,"  she 
sobbed,  as  the  old  man  swept  her  up  in  his  arms.  "  I  was 
just  trying  to  find  my  mother." 

"Child,  child!"  was  all  she  heard,  and  she  could  not 
see  anything  for  tears  blinded  her  eyes. 

In  a  few  minutes  Frederick  entered  their  chamber,  carry- 


THE  INTERPRETATION  357 

ing  in  his  hand  a  scrap  of  pink  note-paper.  He  tottered 
as  he  walked,  and  even  in  the  semi-darkness,  Rue,  on 
Grandfather's  knee,  could  see  his  eyes  burning  like  two 
fires. 

"What  is  this,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "7  hereby  gladly 
and  —  " 

Something  in  Frederick's  face  and  voice  made  Grand- 
father rise  to  his  feet. 

"  The  note  that  came.  Some  villainous  pretext  —  " 

"No,  no,  no,"  shouted  Frederick,  his  voice  rising  to 
undreamed  heights.  "It  is  her  handwriting,  hers." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"It  means  Beak  has  not  succeeded  in  deceiving  her. 
She  was  wiser  than  he  thought.  She  loves  you  and  she 
loves  her  child.  It  means  we  have  conquered.  You  will 
win  her  at  last,  at  last.  Danae!  Danae!" 

He  had  not  strength  to  finish.  There  was  a  rattle  in 
his  throat.  As  he  stood  there  in  front  of  the  fire,  the 
pink  sheet  in  his  upraised  hand,  his  head  began  to  sway 
backward,  his  eyes  to  close.  He  threw  up  both  arms,  still 
swaying  dreadfully  backward.  Grandfather  had  scarcely 
time  to  cry  out  in  fear,  to  run  to  him  with  outstretched 
arms.  Frederick  fell  heavily  into  Grandfather's  arms  and 
the  two  men,  together,  sank  gently  to  the  floor.  If  Fred- 
erick's fall  had  been  unbroken,  he  would  have  struck  the 
marble  center-table,  with  fatal  force.  He  was  too  ill  to  be 
moved  to  his  own  lodgings  that  night,  so  he  was  to  stay 
in  Grandfather's  room.  Rue  was  not  afraid  to  sleep 
alone  in  a  little  room  up-stairs.  Before  she  went  to 
her  bed  Cousin  Frederick  wanted  to  see  her.  His 


358  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

eyes  looked  painfully  large  in  his  white  face  among  the 

pillows. 

"Don't  be  afraid  of  me,  Rue,"  and  his  smile  was  sweet 

as  a  woman's. 

"  I  am  not  afraid,  Frederick,  I  love  you  ever  so  much." 
"Her  forehead,"  he  breathed,  touching  Rue's  forehead 

with  his  finger,  while  his  spirit  touched  another's.  "Will 

you  kiss  me,  Rue  ? " 

The  little  girl,  shy  of  her  kisses,  hesitated. 

"  I  have  never  in  all  my  life  been  kissed  by  a  little  girl." 

She  put  her  fragrant  mouth  to  the  starved  white  face. 


XLI 
A  TRAIN  OF  THOUGHTS 

THERE  was  a  host  of  things  to  ponder  about  and  it 
seemed  as  if  she  would  never  find  time  for  sleep. 
Little  thoughts  and  big  thoughts,  pale  thoughts 
and  rosy  thoughts,  frightening  thoughts  and  kindly 
thoughts,  queer  thoughts  and  ordinary  thoughts.  Rue  did 
not  know  there  were  so  many  thoughts  in  the  whole 
universe  as  those  that  linked  themselves  hand  in  hand 
and  visited  her  that  night. 

On  the  journey  from  Joppa,  a  long  freight  train  had 
gone  by  and  Rue  tried  to  count  the  cars  as  they  jolted 
endlessly  past.  The  train  of  thoughts  that  visited  her  was 
like  this  interminable  freight  train.  You  could  not  see  any 
end  to  it,  no  matter  how  far  ahead  you  looked.  But  the 
train  did  come  to  an  end  at  last,  whereas  this  train  of 
thoughts  kept  crowding  faster  and  faster  and  more  numer- 
ously, the  longer  she  lay  awake.  Sometimes  the  thoughts 
came  in  companies,  and  dragged  her  with  them  in  a 
buzzing  circle,  like  the  little  children  playing  ring- 
around-a-rosy  in  the  school-yard. 

Sometimes  one  modest  thought  came  by  itself,  and  then 
got  bigger  and  bigger  inside  her  head,  like  Ellen's  dough 
rising  and  rising  in  the  bread-pan.  After  a  while,  the 
thought  puffed  up  mountainous  in  the  middle  and  gushed 

359 


360  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

over  at  the  edges  and  still  Rue  could  not  restrain  it, 
this  troublesome  yeasty  thought.  By  and  by  it  leaped  out- 
side her  head  and  filled  the  room  and  instead  of  the  thought 
being  inside  her  she  was  inside  the  thought. 

It  was  the  thought  of  Cousin  Frederick  lying  in  a 
white  heap  on  the  floor  that  comported  itself  in  this 
fashion.  Finally,  Rue  made  a  gigantic  effort  and  climbed 
out  of  that  thought,  and  then  other  thoughts  danced  in 
at  the  door. 

There  were  thoughts  with  variations,  wreathed  and 
interwoven  monstrosities,  like  the  musical  composition 
that  a  swishing  young  lady  with  rings  on  her  fingers  had 
performed  on  the  piano  at  Penrith  House  and  called  a 
"Variation  on  the  Maiden's  Prayer." 

These  were  some  of  the  thoughts  that  came  with  vari- 
ations: Mrs.  Gideon's  sugared  buns;  a  planted  bun;  a 
tree  of  buns.  How  would  a  bun  look  when  it  blossomed  ? 
An  unripe  bun,  a  withered  bun,  like  the  topmost  unpicked 
sweet  apple  that  was  copper-colored  outside  and  jelly-like 
within.  This  was  a  disgusting  thought.  Would  the  birds 
like  the  buns  and  peck  at  them  as  they  did  at  the  cherries  ? 
Climbing  a  bun-tree  in  the  Constantinople  cloak.  She  fell 
down  out  of  the  tree  and  then  that  thought  was  uprooted. 
Or  the  wind  blew  away  the  whole  bun-tree. 

Uncle  Jupiter's  flowing  ice-cream;  a  bowlful,  a  soup 
tureen  of  delicious  soft  ice-cream.  She  fell  over  head-first 
into  that  thought  and  the  splash  gave  her  impetus  for 
other  meditations. 

She  thought  of  Augustus  choosing  the  center  of  the 
circular  watering- trough;  of  the  long-necked  straw- 


A  TRAIN  OF  THOUGHTS  361 

berries  whose  habitation  on  the  grassy  lane  she  alone 
knew;  of  the  austere  but  sympathetic  mahogany  sofa;  of 
Grandfather's  garden- trousers;  of  Aunt  Serena's  white 
knit  shawl  with  ball  fringe;  of  Justine's  satiny  pig- tails; 
of  Mr.  Boscoway's  thrust-forward  lips  and  the  secretive 
dinner-pail. 

A  tall  sunny  thought  was  one  of  the  Guest-Room 
Picture  and  Lillo  fishing  in  the  Fairy  Brook.  Out  of  that 
thought  grew  another  which  by  and  by  covered  the 
first  thought  completely  over  like  the  moon-flower  vine 
over  the  barn-yard  trellis. 

This  running-over  thought  of  the  large  leaves  and  the 
rapid  growth  was  much  more  beautiful  than  even  the 
moon-flower  vine.  It  was  of  her  mother  and  was  fragrant 
and  embracing  and  lily-white.  It  clasped  her  in  its  arms 
and  by  and  by  began  to  swing  her  to-and-fro  just  like  a 
vine  swaying  in  the  wind.  Strange  to  say,  she  was  not 
in  the  least  afraid  of  falling,  but  pressed  the  satiny  skirts 
of  the  flowers  closely  against  her  face.  It  rocked  her 
to-and-fro,  to-and-fro,  and  in  the  sweet  mother-skirts  of 
the  moon-flower  vine  she  was  soothed  to  sleep. 

This  explains  how  she  really  did  go  to  sleep  at  last. 


XLII 
THE  PHANTOM  BY  THE  FIRE 

AM  not  crazy  or  delirious,"  said  Frederick  quietly, 


I 


"but  I  know  we  have  come  to  the  end  of  our 
wandering.  That  scrap  of  pinkish  paper  tells  me  the 
story.  Danae  may  hold  back  for  a  while  —  but  not  for 
long.  She  wants  her  child." 

"  I  am  dull,"  said  the  older  man,  "  or  perhaps  I  do  not 
know  Danae  as  well  as  you.  Why,  if  she  loves  Rue, 
should  she  ask  me  to  give  Rue  into  the  hands  of  Joseph 
Beak  ?  Why,  if  she  loves  me,  does  she  not  come  to  me  ?  " 

"She  did  not  ask  you.  She  wanted  to  find  out  if  what 
had  been  told  her  was  true.  Perhaps  he  was  trying  to  buy 
her  with  a  price.  And  she  rebelled  at  being  bought  with 
pirate's  gold.  She  loved  you  too  much  to  hurt  you  by  a  theft." 

The  feverish  eyes  of  the  sick  man  burned  with  a  clair- 
voyant light. 

"  Where  is  she  to-night  ?  "  asked  Justinian. 

"  I  do  not  know,,  but  she  is  thinking  of  us  —  of  you  and 
of  her  child.  Not  of  me,  no,  not  of  me." 

"  Why  does  she  not  come  to  me  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  she  is  afraid,"  said  Frederick,  gently. 

After  a  pause  — "  Perhaps  if  we  —  if  you,  I  should  say, 
if  you  and  little  Rue  return  to  Joppa,  Danae  will  come  to 
you  there  —  at  her  own  time  —  in  her  own  way  - 

362 


THE  PHANTOM  BY  THE  FIRE  363 

"At  her  own  time  —  in  her  own  way,"  repeated  the 
old  man.  "  If  she  could  only  know  that  I  am  —  that  I  — 
that  I  forgive,  that  I  ask  her  forgiveness." 

"Barbara  Day  will  tell  her,"  said  Frederick,  "I  am 
satisfied  of  that.  She  knows  where  Danae  is,  she  will  not 
want  her  to  suffer,  she  will  comfort  her  —  she  will  tell  her 
of  our  —  of  your  search. 

"I  am  very  tired,  Dr.  Penrith,  now  that  all  is  over. 
Yet  I  cannot  sleep." 

The  relation  of  nurse  and  patient  is  one  of  the  most 
intimate  and  can  be  one  of  the  most  endearing  relations 
in  the  world.  To  see  human  life  at  low  ebb  or  going  out 
to  the  vast  Unknown,  makes  one  acquainted  with  a  new 
and  rare  lovableness,  the  infinite  lovableness  of  death. 
With  the  sob  of  receding  life  we,  ourselves  bystanders  on 
the  shore,  are  carried  in  spirit  to  the  other  land.  On  the 
shore  of  death  as  on  the  shore  of  sleep,  are  we  granted  a 
vision  beyond. 

The  released  spirit  struggles  to  free  itself  and  the  dying 
body  struggles  to  keep  fast  its  comrade.  It  may  not  be 
the  final  contest  between  soul  and  body,  but  it  is  always 
the  shadow  of  what  is  to  come,  of  the  last  supreme  sur- 
render, when  the  soul  wins. 

The  luminosity  of  mortal  illness,  like  Alpine  glow  on 
rugged  peaks,  discovered  and  transfigured  all  that  was 
finest  on  Frederick  Droll's  features.  The  hard  lines  be- 
neath the  eyes,  the  cynical  curve  of  the  mouth,  the 
mocking  light  that  played  about  the  face,  these  had 
disappeared.  They  would  appear  again,  perhaps,  with 
physical  strength  renewed,  but  for  the  time  the  soul 


364  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

had  her  way.  The  sweetness  of  a  man  is  more  poignant 
than  a  woman's  sweetness,  for  it  lies  deeper  and  is  born 
of  pain. 

Once  or  twice  Frederick  spoke,  but  with  a  curious  un- 
willingness to  the  least  betrayal  of  sentiment  about 
himself. 

"If  I'm  knocked  out  by  this,"  he  said,  "remember  that 
all  I  have  is  for  you  and  Rue  and  her." 

Later  in  the  night,  again: 

"  I'm  a  different  man  from  what  I  was  some  weeks  ago 
when  I  first  met  you.  I  was  insolent  then,  an  insolent  dog. 
Do  you  know,  I  never  told  you  I  had  Rue's  wardrobe  and 
little  steamer  trunk  all  ready,  to  take  her  with  me  across 
the  water." 

He  smiled,  half -derisively,  half -tenderly,  at  the  thought 
of  the  little  unworn  garments  that  hung  in  the  closet. 

He  spoke  only  in  fragments  afterwards: 

"That  most  unspiritual  god,  Circumstance,"  Justinian 
heard  him  mutter. 

And  again:  "A  little  child  shall  lead  them." 

As  the  fire  sank  low  in  the  room  and  the  city  sounds 
died  away,  Frederick  slept.  Justinian  did  not  know 
whether  he  himself  slept.  He  only  knew  that  suddenly 
he  was  wide-awake  and  that  his  eyes  were  fastened  upon 
the  arm-chair  where  he  thought  he  had  hung  his  clothes 
the  night  before.  In  this  chair  sat  a  quiet  figure  before 
the  sinking  red  coals.  It  was  a  woman's  graceful  figure  in 
an  attitude  of  deep  meditation.  The  shoulders  were 
white-wrapped,  one  hand  supported  the  head,  the  hair 
fell  across  the  bosom  and  made  a  background  for  the 


THE  PHANTOM  BY  THE  FIRE  365 

delicate  profile.  The  gaze  was  turned  intently,  sorrowfully, 
upon  the  dying  fire.  Some  subtle  light  from  the  window 
aureoled  the  edge  of  the  hair  but  left  its  masses  in  dark. 
The  firelight  brought  out  in  chiaroscuro  the  brow  and 
nose  and  lips.  The  slender  wrist  against  the  temple  shone 
like  life.  The  idle  fingers  in  the  lap  were  revealed  by  a 
glint  amid  the  suggested  darkness  of  skirts.  All  the  rest 
of  the  moveless  figure  was  blended  mysteriously  of  shadow, 
like  one  of  Velasquez'  marvelous  paintings.  It  was  as 
clearly  Danae  as  if  she  herself  sat  there  in  meditation 
before  the  fire. 

Justinian  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  it  for  fear  it  would 
vanish.  The  awful  stillness  of  the  figure  was  the  only 
unrealness.  No  living  woman  could  have  sat  so  motionless. 
Not  a  fold  of  the  drapery  stirred.  Not  a  breath  moved 
the  white  shoulders.  The  fragile  wrist  bore  the  head's 
weight  without  a  tremor  of  change.  Not  a  tress  of  hair 
fluttered  with  the  bosom's  respiration.  The  sad,  delicate 
profile  did  not  vary  by  the  least  angle.  The  profound 
gaze  searched  the  depths  of  the  glowing  coals.  The  quiet 
and  the  silence  of  the  seeming  Danae  was  chilling.  It  was 
Danae,  without  a  doubt,  clearer,  nearer,  dearer,  than 
she  had  ever  been  in  her  life,  but  oh,  the  stillness  of  her, 
and  the  unearthly  sadness  of  that  look. 

Justinian  shut  his  eyes  for  a  moment  to  dissipate  this 
figment  of  his  brain.  But  when  he  looked  again,  he 
realized  the  figure,  as  lovely,  as  motionless,  as  before. 

There  came  a  stir,  a  movement  from  Frederick's  bed. 
The  sick  man  had  raised  himself  and  was  propped  against 
the  pillows. 


366  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  Do  you  see  her  ?  "  asked  Justinian,  in  the  dead  silence 
of  that  vigil. 

"I  have  seen  her  for  a  long  time." 

Then  Justinian  knew  that  no  figment  of  the  brain  had 
deceived  his  sight,  for  two  people  do  not  share  such 
illusions. 

They  spoke  almost  inaudibly  as  if  their  voices  might 
disturb  that  statued  Danae. 

"  Head  upon  her  hand  ?  "  said  Justinian,  still  wondering 
that  another's  eyes  could  see  what  he  saw. 

"And  hair  across  her  bosom,"  whispered  Frederick. 

"Danae!"  said  her  father,  in  a  voice  of  great  fear  and 
awe. 

The  figure  stirred  not.  The  fire  had  now  sunk  very 
low  and  only  the  last  breath  of  life  illuminated  the  coals. 
The  embers  hiccoughed  as  they  crumbled  away.  Even  so 
slight  a  sound  startled  the  two  men,  issuing  as  it  did  from 
the  hollow  of  night  in  the  chamber,  but  it  did  not  startle 
the  quiet  seated  figure,  upon  whose  curves  and  outlines 
the  shadows  were  steadily  encroaching.  One  could  dis- 
tinguish, even  in  the  darkness,  as  in  the  obscure  back- 
grounds of  Velasquez,  the  somber,  shadowy  figure. 

Then  a  faint  and  far-away  singing  voice  was  heard. 
So  faint  and  so  far-away  it  might  have  come  from  the 
blue  points  of  the  Pleiades  in  mid-sky  or  the  depths  of 
the  underworld. 

When  that  shadow  of  a  singing  voice  had  ceased,  the 
seated  figure  was  wiped  out  in  absolute  dark. 

"  You  heard  the  music  ? "  whispered  Frederick. 

"Yes." 


THE   PHANTOM   BY  THE  FIRE  367 

It  was  an  air  from  Norma,  one  that  Frederick  had 
taught  Danae  years  before. 

"Padre,  tu,  piangi!  Padre,  ah,  padre! 
Ah!  bello  a  me  ritorna  die  fido  amor  primiero." 
Rue  also  had  heard  those  words  in  the  deserted  garden. 


XLIII 
A  HAUGHTY  SPIRIT  AND  A  FALL 

FREDERICK  returned  to  Joppa  with  Dr.  Penrith. 
They  were  both  possessed  of  a  great  hope  that 
Danae  would  come  to  them  soon.  How  near  she 
had  come  to  them  twice  they  could  not  guess.  It  seemed 
impossible  to  reach  her,  but  surely  she  knew  of  the  search, 
she  knew  that  her  father  awaited  her  with  open  arms. 

When  a  person  has  been  to  foreign  parts  and  returns 
home  with  not  only  material  possessions  in  the  way  of 
coat  and  scarlet  cap  and  fluffy  foreign-looking  clothes, 
but  also  the  vast  added  assets  of  experience  and  wisdom, 
it  can  be  imagined  with  what  resplendent  luster  that 
person's  reputation  shines.  Rue  had  also  acquired  the 
friendship  of  Frederick  Droll,  who  now  became  as  one 
of  her  "impedimenta"  in  the  "Sullen  Interlunar  Cave," 
and  between  whom  and  Justine  she  had  for  some  days 
the  honor  of  being  both  ambassadress  and  interpreter. 
Justine,  uncountenanced  by  the  moral  support  of  the 
limp  kitten  who  had  pined  away  in  the  interval  of  Rue's 
New  York  visit,  stood  with  her  finger  in  her  mouth  and 
surveyed  the  new  creature  warily  from  behind  the  fortifica- 
tion of  the  rustic  chair.  Frederick  held  out  an  inviting  hand. 

"Speak  to  him.  He  is  nice,"  said  Rue  warmly.  Then 
to  Frederick:  "Justine  is  so  young,  she  is  a  little  afraid. 

368 


A  HAUGHTY  SPIRIT  AND  A  FALL       369 

You'll  have  to  catch  her  the  way  we  do  the  little  chick- 
ens, all-of-a-sudden." 

They  laughed  at  this  absurd  comparison,  but  Justine's 
laugh  lacked  the  hilarity  of  less  strained  situations.  She 
proceeded  to  emulate  the  example  of  her  compeers,  the 
chickens,  by  creeping  under  the  rustic  bench  as  if  it  had 
been  a  coop.  Rue  clucked  to  her  insultingly  and  rattled 
an  imaginary  pan  of  corn.  You  will  see  by  this  that  the 
relationship  between  Justine  and  Rue  had  been  consider- 
ably altered.  Whereas  in  the  old  days  Justine,  on  account 
of  her  superior  practical  and  home-keeping  qualities,  had 
patronized  the  wild  and  helter-skelter  Rue,  now  Justine 
regarded  her  with  veneration  as  mouthpiece  of  wisdom 
and  fountain  head  of  romance. 

Ellen  would  consult  Rue  as  to  the  shape  of  the  extra 
loaves  that  were  the  last  by-product  of  baking-day,  and 
Mr.  Boscoway  listened  in  regardful  silence  while  Rue 
lectured  upon  the  botanical  individualities  of  New  York 
roses.  This  was  while  he  was  on  the  step-ladder  cutting 
roses  for  the  supper-table  from  the  tall  Provence  rose-bush 
that  grew  against  the  south  side  of  the  house.  Nor  did  the 
altitude  of  his  physical  position  abate  his  mental  humble- 
ness. Rue  was  an  ardent  conversationalist  and  no  change 
or  necessary  stridency  in  the  occupation  of  her  opposite 
dimmed  the  ardor  of  her  recitals.  Many  of  them  took  time 
in  the  telling  and,  beginning  with  Mr.  Boscoway  cutting 
ears  of  corn  between  the  rustling  rows  of  the  corn  patch, 
continued  while  he  was  spitting  on  his  hands  and  spading 
up  the  strawberries,  reached  a  climax  when  he  was  pro- 
saically heaping  manure  into  the  wheel-barrow  and  did 


370  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

not  perhaps  finish  till  he  was  making  a  long  tour  of  the 
orchard  looking  for  the  lightning-struck  tree,  with  faithful 
Rue  attached  to  his  large  footsteps,  and  fervently  bringing 
her  reminiscence  to  a  close.  It  was  trying  at  times  to  have 
Ellen  select  Rue's  choicest  rhetorical  moment  for  a  hideous 
rattling  of  the  ash-pan,  or  for  her  ponderous  strokes  with 
the  biscuit-roller.  Ellen  and  Mr.  Boscoway  inevitably 
missed  the  fine  points,  but  Rue  took  pains  to  question 
them,  following  Grandfather's  educational  methods,  to 
stimulate  their  slack  and  undrilled  minds.  Several  times 
she  detected  them  in  glaring  inaccuracies,  as  when  Ellen 
said:  "Sure,  it  was  the  Gargyles  in  the  picter-place  that 
opened  the  faces  of  them  and  yelled." 

Mr.  Boscoway  was  unable  to  enumerate,  till  after  a 
number  of  rehearsals,  the  menu,  in  its  proper  order,  of 
that  memorable  luncheon.  In  the  end  he  became  letter 
perfect.  Their  errors  performed  the  useful  office  of  sug- 
gesting to  Rue  attractive  modifications  and  additions  to 
the  original  stratum  of  fact. 

The  facts  finally  bore  a  certain  resemblance  to  the 
facades  and  columns  of  Lombard  architecture,  jestingly 
decorated  with  post-organic  fancies.  By  and  by  a  myth 
developed  which  Justine  never  tired  of  hearing  and  for 
which  she  was  even  allowed,  when  Rue  was  in  an  indul- 
gent mood,  to  add  characteristic  scraps. 

Rue  found  a  new  interest  in  her  trips  to  the  village 
because  she  could  not  only  receive  but  impart  informa- 
tion. Sancho,  Mr.  Dewsnap's  terrier,  of  a  cynical  turn  of 
mind,  recognized  Rue's  dignity  on  her  first  visit  to  the 
meat-shop,  by  standing  askance  with  stiffened  tail  and 


A  HAUGHTY  SPIRIT  AND  A  FALL        371 

rolling  eyes.  Formerly  he  had  leaned  against  her  legs  in  a 
familiar  manner. 

Mr.  Larrabee  or  Mrs.  Gideon  would  salute  her:  "  Howdy, 
Rue!  You  found  Noo  York  a  purty  big  place,  eh,  for  a 
little  gell?" 

This  was  because  they  themselves  had  never  been  there 
and  though  patronizing,  was  intended  as  an  opener  to 
conversation.  If  imagination  was  not  soaring  freely  that 
day,  Rue  would  reply  with  dignity, 

"Yes,  thank  you.  Very  large  and  full  of  all  kinds  of 
things."  Then  she  would  pass  quickly  on  with  a  counte- 
nance compact  of  mystery. 

The  first  time  that  Rue  attended  church  after  her  home- 
coming was  the  crowning  day  of  her  glory.  She  was 
attired  in  one  of  the  fluffy  white  frocks  with  which  Cousin 
Frederick  had  enriched  her  wardrobe,  and  thus  immacu- 
late, with  polished  forehead  and  well-combed  hair,  she 
followed  the  churchly  cavalcade,  composed  of  Grand- 
father at  the  head,  Aunt  Serena,  Justine,  herself,  and 
lastly  Ellen,  with  yellow  roses  in  her  bonnet,  bringing  up 
the  rear.  They  walked  in  the  central  path  of  the  grassy 
lane,  holding  their  skirts  aside  from  the  tall,  dewy  grassy. 
This  pious  practice  Justine  assiduously  followed,  in  respect 
to  her  abbreviated  frocks.  Ellen  chuckled  with  ungodly 
Irish  chuckles  at  the  sight  of  Justine's  plump  legs  lavishly 
displayed  in  the  rear.  Rue  walked  at  a  subdued  pace  as 
became  Sunday  morning,  but  with  an  elate  heart.  There 
were  several  distinct  and  separate  joys  in  contemplation. 

There  were  the  abodes  of  stay-at-home  persons  to  be 
passed,  persons  who,  either  from  feebleness  of  age  or 


372  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

from  impious  indifference,  were  cut  off  from  the  privilege 
of  public  worship.  One  of  them,  the  free-thinking  Mr. 
Dewsnap,  was  sure  to  be  ostentatiously  chopping  wood 
in  his  front  yard,  while  Mrs.  Loami  Larrabee  was  sure  to 
be  at  her  front  window,  the  Bible  ostentatiously  open  on 
her  knee.  Rue  was  glad  to  have  Mr.  Dewsnap  see  .her  in 
her  whiteness,  instead  of  in  the  brown  linen  dress  with  the 
three-cornered  darn  in  the  front  breadth  and  the  Mexican 
bag  on  her  arm. 

Little  enough  reading  did  Mrs.  Larrabee  do  in  her 
Bible  while  the  long  and  straggling  church  procession 
went  by,  beginning  with  the  Welsh  people  from  the 
Hills,  who  came  early  because  they  lived  so  far  away  and 
ending  with  the  Penrith  family,  who  always  were  late.  This 
lateness  Grandfather  attributed  to  Aunt  Serena's  over- 
elaboration  of  the  children's  toilet;  Aunt  Serena  to 
Grandfather's  habitual  loss  of  his  spectacles  just  before 
starting;  Rue  to  the  glutinous  slowness  of  the  Sunday 
pace,  and  Ellen  to  the  "fidgetty  ways  of  Himsilf,"  Him- 
silf  being  Dr.  Penrith. 

After  Mrs.  Larrabee's  window  had  been  passed,  houses 
became  more  plentiful  on  the  way  to  the  white-painted 
church,  and  the  Penriths  mingled  with  an  increasing  pro- 
cession, sometimes  as  many  as  twenty-five  in  sight  at  one 
time,  according  to  Mrs.  Loami  Larrabee's  careful  sta- 
tistics. 

Mrs.  Gideon  had  a  dog,  not  Mrs.  Gideon  who  baked 
the  bread,  but  Old-Mrs.  Gideon  who  lived  in  the  same 
house.  This  dog  was  another  window  gazer.  You  could 
not  deceive  her  as  to  Sunday.  She  knew  when  the  day 


A  HAUGHTY  SPIRIT  AND  A  FALL        373 

of  the  week  came  around  as  well  as  those  individuals 
do  who  keep  track  by  the  calendar.  She  was  an  old  dog 
of  an  unknown  brand,  fat,  brown,  with  pop  eyes  and 
curly  ears,  remotely  suggesting  the  spaniel  type.  No 
sooner  was  Sunday  breakfast  finished  than  Poppy 
began  a  series  of  excruciating  yawns  prognosticatory  of 
her  coming  boredom.  When  Old-Mrs.  Gideon  got  her 
bonnet  from  the  band-box  in  the  dining-room  cup- 
board, Poppy,  with  the  hugest  yawn  of  the  series, 
assumed  her  wonted  place  in  the  cretonne-covered  chair 
and  placed  her  paws  upon  the  sill.  To  this  chair  she 
had  been  consigned  during  that  first  dreadful  Sunday, 
years  ago. 

Rue  always  looked  for  Poppy's  bored  and  yawning 
furry  face  at  Old-Mrs.  Gideon's  window,  and  Poppy 
always  looked  back  like  the  prisoner  of  Chillon,  as'  if  she 
saw  but  "  vacancy  absorbing  space,  and  fixedness." 

That  was  Poppy's  Sunday  look. 

When  Rue  entered  the  church  door  she  would  pass 
Uncle  Jupiter,  the  negro  confectioner,  who  occupied  the 
back  seat  in  the  corner.  This  position  did  not  seem  to  Rue 
one  of  humility,  as  many  considered  it,  but  of  unique 
dignity.  He  was  separated  by  at  least  six  pews  from  the 
nearest  worshipers  and  could  always  be  located  as  the 
black  center  of  obscurity  from  which  issued  audible 
groans  at  the  telling  points  in  Elder  Trimble's  discourse. 
Rue  stood  in  great  awe  of  Uncle  Jupiter,  more  than  of 
any  other  resident  of  Joppa.  The  causes  for  her  awe  were 
his  distinguished  color,  these  self -flagellant  groans,  and 
the  fact  that  he  had  once  been  a  slave,  three  inviolate 


374  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

mysteries.  Upon  his  slavery  days  he  would  never  expa- 
tiate, only  saying: 

"Law,  chile,  I  could  done  relate,"  so  there  it  remained, 
more  and  more  investing  his  person  with  majesty. 

Uncle  Jupiter  wore  his  clothes  in  the  slack  manner 
characteristic  of  greatness,  which  does  not  hold  itself 
bound  by  the  ordinary  links  of  suspenders,  buttons  and 
buttonholes.  His  vest  was  unfastened  at  irregular  inter- 
vals, and  though  he  wore  a  collar  with  a  magnificent 
collar  button,  he  never  added  the  superfluous  cravat. 
Rue  had  for  a  long  time  been  anxious  to  make  a  good 
impression  on  Uncle  Jupiter,  and  on  this  glorious  Sunday 
her  opportunity  arrived. 

Then  there  was  Elder  Trimble  who,  during  the  delivery 
of  the  sermon,  often  bent  his  eloquent  unseeing  gaze 
on  Rue's  special  individual  set  of  features.  At  those  times 
he  never  recognized  her,  though  she  looked  back  with 
responsive  intelligence  to  his  glossy  anecdotes.  She  won- 
dered if  ministers  really  saw  in  sermon-time,  or  if  their 
eyes  were  veiled  by  a  holy  haze,  such  as  befell  Saul  on 
the  road  to  Damascus. 

Once  during  the  sermon  the  outer  door  had  been 
loudly  rattled  by  some  ruffian  boys,  egged  on  by  Sulky  as 
ringleader.  Elder  Trimble  had  stopped  in  the  middle  of 
his  sermon  and  said  in  a  different  tone  of  voice  that  was 
a  shock  to  everybody: 

"Will  Deacon  Larrabee  kindly  close  and  bolt  the 
outside  door  very  firmly  so  as  to  prevent  a  recurrence  of 
that  annoying  ah — strepitation." 

Mrs.  Gideon    had  said    afterwards,  "To  think  of  an 


A  HAUGHTY  SPIRIT  AND  A  FALL        375 

elder  up  in  the  pulpit  taking  notice  to  such  a  thing  and 
calling  out  Loami's  name  right  between  his  secondly  and 
thirdly." 

To-day  Rue  thought  that  Elder  Trimble  could  not  fail 
to  note  even  from  the  pulpit  the  regenerate  goodness  of 
her  face,  for  Grandfather,  deceived  by  her  gentle  manner, 
gentle  with  the  fullness  of  worldly  content,  had  re- 
marked to  Aunt  Serena  on  the  "  chastened  sweetness  of 
our  little  Rue." 

These  various  occasions  for  installing  herself  in  the 
good  graces  of  her  world  were  the  joys  that  Rue  antici- 
pated. But  humiliation  was  in  store  for  her.  It  awaited 
her  in  the  Sunday-school  Room,  whither,  all  unknowing 
her  fate,  she  repaired  after  the  service. 

She  was  taken  out  of  the  Infant-Class,  where  she  would 
have  shone  as  the  biggest  and  wisest  and  where  on  the 
pygmy  front  bench  her  overgrown  knees  would  have  pro- 
truded upward  like  Brobdignag  among  the  Lilliputians. 
Only  to  have  sat  there  one  more  Sunday  was  her  wish,  to 
make  this  day  of  glory  an  everlasting  tradition  in  the 
benighted  Infant-Class. 

But  no,  she  was  taken  in  hand  by  Miss  Alvira  and  placed 
in  a  select  class  of  four  little  girls,  of  whom  she  was  the 
youngest.  Two  of  them  were  strangers  to  her  and  vis- 
itors in  the  village.  Miss  Alvira  called  them  Enid  and 
Geraldine  and  they  reminded  Rue  of  Georgiana  (or  was 
it  Flora  ?)  in  the  Guest-Room  Picture.  They  had  extreme- 
ly fat  legs  with  stockings  that  came  to  an  indecent  end 
above  their  shoe-tops  so  that  Rue  was  ashamed  to  look, 
though  the  fat  pink  legs  attracted  her  gaze  as  by  a  mag- 


376  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

net.  These  little  girls  haughtily  edged  away  from  her 
when  she  first  sat  down.  The  culminating  cause  of  her 
humiliation  was  a  grasshopper.  This  insect,  with  the  well- 
known  fondness  of  its  kind  for  Sunday  rambles  among 
muslin  gowns,  selected  Rue's  person  as  an  eligible  retreat 
and  by  some  method  known  only  to  himself,  hid  between 
her  garments  and  made  his  first  appearance  during  the 
expounding  of  the  Sunday-school  Lesson.  He  was  a  bright 
green  creature,  agile  in  build  and  with  potential  spright- 
liness  in  the  fold  of  his  wing  and  the  kink  of  his  knee. 
When  Rue  discovered  him  he  was  rambling  meditatively  ' 
between  her  skirt  and  petticoat  and  verging  steadily 
upward  to  the  intricate  gathers  below  her  sash.  When 
this  elysium  should  be  reached,  he  would  be  lost  to  view 
and  his  movements  followed  by  agonizing  conjecture.  Rue 
withstood  his  progress  by  a  hand  placed  firmly  across 
his  path,  but  with  a  horrible  spring  he  eluded  her  and 
she  relaxed  her  efforts. 

Rue  could  only  have  removed  the  troublesome  visitor 
by  a  highly  improper  procedure  which  would  shock  the 
assembled  Sunday-school.  To  lift  and  shake  her  clothes 
was  out  of  the  question.  The  haughty  little  girls,  Enid 
and  Geraldine,  had  also  discovered  the  grasshopper,  and 
instead  of  giving  Rue  their  serious  sympathy  they  moved 
away  and  giggled  under  their  breath.  At  this  painful  mo- 
ment, Rue  became  aware  that  Miss  Alvira  had  asked  her 
a  question.  The  lesson  was  about  Judas  Iscariot. 

"And  instead  of  killing  himself,  what  ought  he  to 
have  done  ?  "  asked  Miss  Alvira,  a  second  time  and  more 
distinctly. 


A  HAUGHTY  SPIRIT  AND  A  FALL        377 

Rue  heard  but  was  too  confused  to  understand.  Miss 
Alvira  often  modulated  her  voice  so  that  her  questions 
were  self-answering.  Deceived  by  the  inflection,  Rue 
cried  feverishly:  "Killed  others." 

The  haughty  little  girls  laughed  outright,  Miss  Alvira 
looked  grieved  and  Rue  perceived  that  she  had  made  a 
terrible  mistake.  Looking  down  at  her  skirt  she  saw  that 
the  wily  grasshopper  had  disappeared  upwards.  Then  los- 
ing all  self-control,  she  burst  into  sobs  and  had  to  be  led 
from  the  room. 

To  complete  her  mortification,  the  Infant-Class  doors 
were  at  that  moment  opened,  and  Rue  was  hazily  con- 
scious of  Justine  —  the  much  more  youthful  Justine, 
surveying  with  placid  maternal  surprise  Rue's  humiliating 
exit. 


XLIV 

THINGS  YOU  SEE  WHEN  YOU  SHUT  YOUR 
EYES 

SHUT  your  eyes  again,  Frederick,  and  tell  me  what 
you  see." 
Rue  had  dropped  the  Cousin,  as  being  unneces- 
sary for  the  terms  of  perfect  equality  which  existed  between 
her  and  Frederick  Droll.  He  lay  in  his  steamer-chair  between 
the  rose  of  Sharon  tree  and  the  meadow-rue  plant,  with 
one  of  Aunt  Serena's  best  cushions  under  his  head.  Aunt 
Serena  had  taken  kindly  to  the  young  man.  Rue  stood 
at  one  knee  and  Justine  at  the  other,  both  faces  bearing 
an  expression  of  spellbound  interest.  Justine  did  not 
understand  the  conversation,  but  not  wishing  to  be  left 
out,  caught  what  crumbs  she  could  from  the  rich  man's 
table. 

Frederick's  face  was  still  the  large-boned,  gaunt,  dis- 
torted face  that  had  at  first  repelled  both  Rue  and  her 
Grandfather.  It  was  as  white  and  pained  as  it  had  been 
that  June  day  in  Greenwich  village.  But  a  change  had 
come  over  it,  the  look  of  the  slave  had  gone  out  of  the 
bloodshot  brown  eyes  and  the  large  irregular  mouth  did 
not  wear  the  hard  smile.  Rue  no  longer  saw  Frederick's 
features,  only  the  dear  soul  that  lived  behind. 

"  I  shut  my  eyes  and  I  see  —  I  see  —  "  began  Fred- 

378 


THINGS  YOU  SEE  379 

erick,  in  the  most  remote  alluring  voice  that  ever  was, 
"I  see  —  " 

"  Oh  what  do  you  fwink  he  is  goin'  to  see  this  time  ? " 
gurgled  Justine. 

"  Keep  still.  His  lips  are  beginning  to  speak." 

"  I  see  the  top  of  a  mountain,  not  a  snow-capped  moun- 
tain, but  a  green  and  wooded  mountain.  The  top  of  it  is 
smooth  like  a  plain,  so  they  call  it  II  Pian'  Verde.  Some 
people  have  built  on  the  Pian'  Verde  a  little  village  with 
white  houses  and  gray  roofs,  rough  and  silvery  gray  and 
a  church  with  a  square  campanile  —  " 
1  "Fwat's  that?" 

"Keep   still!" 

"A  square  campanile  and  a  bell  that  tolls  out  Ave 
Maria  and  Angelus  and  the  people  down  in  the  village 
listen  and  say:  'That's  San  Giovanni  up  on  the  Pian' 
Verde.'  " 

Rue's  face  wreathed  with  delight  at  these  unknown 
syllablings.  Justine  looked  slightly  offended. 

"There  is  a  deep,  deep  valley  with  a  winding  river, 
gray-green,  the  color  of  oats.  It  pours  down  from  a  glacier — 

"Fwat's  that?" 

"It  pours  down  from  the  caves  of  a  river  of  ice  that 
never  entirely  melts  and  this  river  of  ice  the  people  on 
the  green  mountain  see  all  summer  long  and  all  winter 
long,  hung  between  the  white  mountains.  The  sun  shines 
on  the  glacier  all  day  and  the  moon  travels  over  it  at 
night,  and  out  of  its  blue  caves  that  river  runs  and  the 
people  hear  it  roaring  like  a  railway-train,  when  you  hear 
it  very  far  away  and  echoing  from  the  Twin  Mountains. 


380  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Across  at  profound  valley,  across  the  roaring  river,  and 
across  the  Ghiaccio  Bondasca  rises  a  dome  of  white.  It  is 
snow.  It  is  rounded  like  the  breast  of  a  swan  and  it  arches 
against  the  blue  sky  untouched  by  a  single  dent,  as  smooth 
and  perfect  as  a  white  cheek.  The  snow  fell  a  thousand 
years  ago  and  has  lain  there  ever  since.  No  one  has  ever 
walked  on  it. 

"  Sometimes  it  looks  so  near  that  one  might  think  he 
could,  with  a  single  stride,  step  from  the  Pian'  Verde  across 
the  valley  and  put  his  foot  down  in  the  middle  of  that  white 
snow-drift  against  the  sky." 

"I  guess  that  person  would  step  right  down  into  the 
middle  of  that  roaring  river,"  exclaimed  Rue,  scornful 
at  the  idea  of  such  presumption. 

"  Does  the  river  roar  like  this  ? "  asked  Justine,  with 
a  bovine  mooing,  supposed  by  her  to  be  of  a  terrific 
nature. 

"If  a  giant  should  step  into  the  middle  of  that  white 
swan's  cheek,  would  the  people  see  the  print  of  his  big 
foot  the  next  morning  ?  "  inquired  Rue. 

"  Yes,  the  people  on  the  Pian'  Verde  would  see  the  big 
footprint,  but  they  have  looked  hundreds  of  years  and 
no  footprint  was  ever  seen  on  the  Cacciobella. 

"I  see  — I  see  —  the  little  piazza  before  the  castle,  and 
a  fountain  that  runs  day  and  night  like  steady  rain,  and 
an  old  woman  with  a  white  handkerchief  around  her 
head  washing  wool  in  the  fountain.  I  see,  I  see  the  carved 
heads  nailed  on  the  castle  wall  with  rings  through  their 
ugly  laughing  lips.  The  horses  are  tied  to  those  rings, 
when  the  horses  have  to  stand  and  wait. 


THINGS  YOU  SEE  381 

"  I  see  old  women  going  with  heavy  baskets  on  their 
backs,  and  little  boys  blowing  horns,  and  goats  running 
along  behind  them,  jingling  their  little  bells.  They  are 
all  climbing  the  tiny  path  that  zigzags  among  the  hills 
till  you  can't  see  it  any  more. 

"I  see  a  poor  old  man  sitting  on  a  stone  bench  against 
the  castle  wall,  mending  a  red  cotton  umbrella.  He  is 
blind  in  one  eye,  but  he  mends  neatly  and  all  the  people 
on  the  Pian'  Verde  bring  him  their  old  red  cotton  um- 
brellas and  he  mends  them  and  eats  yellow  polenta  and 
boiled  chestnuts  for  his  dinner.  When  the  little  boys  pass 
they  say  respectfully,  '  Buon  appetit',  Guiseppe.' 

"  The  lady  comes  out  of  the  castle  hall  and  she  smiles 
too.  'Buon  appetit',  Guiseppe.' 

"  She  is  a  tall  lady  with  hair  like  autumn  leaves  hanging 
around  her  face,  and  she  has  long,  thin,  white  hands,  and 
she  wears  a  pointed  frill  and  a  jeweled  belt." 

"What  is  her  name?" 

"  Violante  de  Salis  and  her  picture  hangs  in  the  castle 
hall  to-day,  but  she  was  dead  three  hundred  years  ago." 

"  Can  you  still  see  her  ?  " 

"I  can  see  her,  oh,  so  plainly.  She  has  come  out  to 
watch  the  counting  of  the  sheep  on  the  piazza,  the  black 
sheep,  the  white  and  brown  sheep  huddling  together;  and 
little  lambs,  sucking  at  their  mother's  teats  in  the  midst 
of  that  hurly-burly." 

"  I  suppose  they  are  hungry,"  said  Justine  sympathetic- 
ally. 

"  The  sheep  push  each  other  and  say,  Baa,  baa,  and  the 
short-skirted  women  run  around,  trying  to  find  their  own 


382  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

sheep  and  the  little  boys  keep  all  the  gates  of  the  village 
streets  shut,  and  the  gray-bearded  sheep-counter  counts 
the  sheep  and  the  lambs  and  writes  them  all  down  in  his 
book.  Violante  de  Salis,  with  her  long,  pale  face,  stands 
and  watches  and  smiles — when — oh,  listen,  listen." 

Justine  turned  to  the  barn  in  great  excitement  but 
heard  nothing  except  Mr.  Boscoway  pumping  at  the 
barn  pump.  "  Fwat  ?  " 

"Hush,  it's  something  in  his  head  he  hears." 

"  I  hear,  I  hear  —  a  noise  like  thunder,  only  it  does  not 
stop  but  grows  louder  and  louder.  The  hills  echo  with  it 
and  the  sheep  stop  baaing  and  the  birds  stop  singing 
and  even  the  leaves  on  the  trees  look  curled-up  and 
frightened.  A  fearful  noise,  louder  and  louder." 

"  Oh,  what  is  it,  what  is  it  ?  It  is  not  going  to  kill  that 
autumn  lady  - 

"And  all  the  dear  little  lambs  ?" 

"It  is  La  Valanga.  All  the  people  cry  out:  'The  ava- 
lanche, the  avalanche ! '  Somewhere  a  stone,  a  single  stone  ' 
has  been  torn  out  and  has  begun  to  slip  down  and  slip 
down.  It  tears  out  another  stone  and  another  stone,  and 
then  the  whole  side  of  a  mountain  is  loosened  and  slips 
down  and  roars  down  and  grinds  down  till  it  overwhelms 
a  village,  covers  it  all  up  and  you  would  not  know  a  vil- 
lage had  ever  been  there.  It  is  buried  under  the  side  of 
the  mountain." 

"  Was  it  the  village  with  the  gray  roofs  and  the  castle  ?  " 

"No,  it  was  Piuro,  another  village  not  far  away.  The 
avalanche  swept  down  upon  it  and  buried  it.  One  chateau 
remained  and  in  that  chateau  Violante's  lover  lived. 


THINGS  YOU  SEE  383 

"  To-day  the  chestnut  trees  are  growing  where  the  roofs 
of  the  houses  used  to  be.  One  bell-tower  stands  up  above 
the  ruins  of  the  rocks.  The  rest  of  the  church  is  deep 
buried  in  the  soil.  You  can  go  there  to-day  and  see  the 
bell-tower  and  the  chateau  and  the  ruins  of  rocks  and 
Violante's  picture.  She  is  very  pale  and  tall  and  level- 
browed,  with  autumn  hair  around  her  face." 

"  I  suppose  she  was  pale  because  the  avalanche  came," 
mused  Rue,  "and  because  she  was  thinking  of  her  lover." 
In  such  ways  were  the  long  summer  days  passed  while 
Frederick  and  Dr.  Penrith  waited  and  hoped  against 
hope  for  further  news  from  Danae.  Meanwhile  the  mea- 
dow-rue, grown  exceeding  tall,  was  beginning  to  toss  out 
feathery  fronds  that  were  the  color  of  moonlight. 


XLV 
RUE  IN  SWITZERLAND          , 

SEE  another  story  with  me  in  it!" 
"  And  me,"  echoed  Justine. 
"  I  will  begin  with  Rue  because  she  is  older," 
said  Frederick.  He  took  Rue  upon  his  knee. 

"I  see,  I  see  —  a  train  winding  through  a  sweet  country. 
People  are  looking  out  of  the  windows." 

"  Am  I  one  of  those  people  ?  I  do  hope  so,  Frederick ! " 
"Wait,  Rue.  There  is  a  lake  with  the  bluest  water 
you  ever  saw.  Blue  like  a  turquoise  stone,  crystal  clear, 
luminous,  reflecting  cloudy  mountains  and  mountainy 
clouds.  They  melt  together  and  float  upward,  lake  and 
cloud  and  sky  and  mountain.  Climbing  the  steep  shore 
of  the  lake  are  towns  and  vineyards  with  terraces  built 
to  keep  the  vineyards  from  slipping  down  hill.  The  hills 
are  purple  with  grapes.  By  and  by  the  train  turns  away 
from  the  lake  and  twists  off  into  a  meadowy  upland  coun- 
try. People  look  out  of  the  windows  and  they  see  on  the 
edge  of  the  landscape  a  village  lying  between  the  folds  of 
blue-green  hills.  This  little  gfay  village  is  scrambling  to 
the  top  of  a  hill  of  its  own  and  is  crowned  by  a  castle  that 
all  the  houses  seem  to  point  to  and  strive  to  reach,  lean- 
ing up  against  each  other  like  children  around  their 
school-teacher.  The  gray  castle  crowns  the  village  in  a 

384 


RUE  IN  SWITZERLAND  385 

beautiful  way,  and  the  stone  houses  cluster  about  it  as  if 
they  knew  just  the  becoming  way  of  wearing  their  red 
roofs  and  composing  their  attitude  to  suit  the  lines  of 
the  hills. 

"People  look  out  of  the  train  and  say:  'What  a  lovely 
little  village!  How  exquisitely  it  composes  itself!  What  is 
its  name  ? ' 

"  That  is  all  they  say.  For  the  train  winds  and  twists 
in  the  valley  of  the  Broye,  and  soon  the  village  is  lost  to 
view  and  no  one  is  going  to  stop  there,  except  one  person." 

"That  is  I,"  cried  Rue,  beaming  with  self-satisf action. 

"  The  train  comes  to  a  standstill  at  a  little  town  called 
Palezieux  and  a  girl  steps  from  the  train.  The  porter 
hands  her  luggage  after  her.  She  is  a  beautiful  girl,  with 
hair  the  color  of  ripe  chestnuts  and  a  child's  eyes,  dark 
blue  and  wondering  and  a  Greek  music  in  the  movements 
of  her  body,  as  if  one  of  the  Tanagra  statuettes  had  grown 
life-size  and  begun  to  walk  about.  People  look  at  her  a 
second  time,  for  she  is  young  and  Greek  and  beautiful." 

"That  is  I,"  cried  Rue.  "I  am  young  and  Greek  and 
beautiful.  Go  on,  please,  quickly.  Am  I  alone?  I  don't 
want  to  be  alone." 

"No,  she  is  not  alone,"  said  Frederick  slowly,  almost 
reluctantly.  "A  man,  a  young  man,  is  standing  beside 
her  as  the  train  moves  away.  Now  they  are  alone  together, 
very  happy  and  looking  off  toward  the  hills  where  lies 
the  lovely  vanished  village." 

"Tell  me  about  his  face." 

"  I  cannot  see  his  face,  but  he  loves  her  and  is  very, 
very  happy. " 


386  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"I  think  it  is  Lillo,"  said  Rue  quietly  to  herself. 

"They  buy  a  drink  of  fizzy  limonade  and  eat  some 
grapes  and  wander  about  in  a  pine  wood  and  wait  for 
another  train  that  will  take  them  a  few  miles  nearer  to 
the  place  where  they  are  going." 

"  Where  are  they  going  ?  To  that  little  gray  village  with 
the  castle  ?  " 

"When  they  have  come  to  the  end  of  the  next  little 
jaunt  they  are  at  the  end  of  their  railway  journey.  The  sign 
above  the  Gare  says  Ecublens-Rue.  The  engine  puffs  and 
backs  away  and  leaves  them  in  the  middle  of  the  fields. 
There  is  a  pine  wood  and  that  red-roofed  village  has 
come  into  sight  again  and  is  far  away  climbing  up  to  the 
castle  and  the  sky.  The  name  of  the  village  is  Rue  and 
Ecublens  is  somewhere  else,  no  one  knows  where." 

"  Is  it  really  named  Rue  ?  " 

"Yes,  you  may  find  it  for  yourself  on  the  map." 

"  Was  it  named  after  me  ?  " 

"Before  you,  but  perhaps  for  you.  It  was  a  Roman 
town  once  and  the  sweetest  hill-town  in  the  world. 

"Some  blue-bloused  peasants  gather  and  ask  them 
where  they  want  to  go,  thinking  that  the  beautiful  youth 
and  the  Greek  maiden  have  made  a  mistake.  The  lovers 
soon  learn  that  Rue  is  two  hours'  walk  distant,  and  that 
there  are  no  vehicles  to  be  hired.  They  are  very  glad,  be- 
cause the  fields  are  delicious,  there  are  foot-paths,  and 
the  sun  is  golden  in  the  west,  and  they  are  lovers." 

"'But  our  luggage?'" 

"The  peasants  whisper  and  smile  and  lift  their  hats 
and  say  '  Perhaps  monsieur  desires  a  poussette  ? ' ' 


RUE  IN  SWITZERLAND  387 

"'A  poussette?'" 

"  After  a  few  moments  the  poussette  is  produced  and  it 
is  a  perambulator.  The  young  girl  blushes  while  the 
peasants  put  their  luggage  side  by  side  in  the  baby  car- 
riage, smile,  lift  their  hats  and  move  away.  A  black- 
aproned  gar9on  pushes  the  perambulator.  The  lovers 
strike  out  across  the  meadows  and  by  the  brooks,  keeping 
the  gray  towers  and  the  red  roofs  in  sight.  The  shadows 
of  the  trees  are  long  in  the  level  sunlight.  The  young 
girl  pulls  meadow-sweet  and  bluebells  and  twines  them 
in  her  hair." 

"Doesn't  she  wear  a  hat?" 

"  No,  she  has  taken  off  her  hat  because  her  lover  likes 
to  see  her  with  flowers  in  her  hair.  So  there  they  are, 
hand  in  hand  and  very  soon  they  will  be  climbing  the 
ruined  stairway  of  the  Roman  tower  at  Rue." 

"Is  that  the  end?" 

"No,  it  is  just  the  beginning — for  them." 

Frederick  opened  his  eyes  by  which  symbolism  Rue 
was  informed  that  the  story  had  come  to  a  conclusion. 

"  Where  will  they  sleep  to-night  ? "  asked  Justine, 
showing  her  practical  bent. 

"They  will  sleep  at  an  auberge  called  the  Fleur-de- 
Lys.  It  will  have  stone  halls  and  rough  stone  stairs, 
almost  like  steps  in  the  rocks.  They  will  have  for  supper," 
continued  Frederick,  forestalling  Justine's  probable  next 
question,  "  an  omelette  aux  fins  herbes,  a  bottle  of  Yvorne, 
a  salad,  some  Gruyeres  cheese,  and  perhaps,  very  much 
perhaps,  two  pretty  scalloped  sponge-cakes  with  zabag- 
lione  poured  over  them." 


388  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

In  this  manner  did  Frederick  and  Rue  travel  abroad. 

One  day  she  showed  him  her  Sullen  Interlunar  Cave 
and  her  priceless  possessions;  the  paper  dolls  propped  up 
in  linked  rows  against  the  wall;  the  rag  baby  whose 
waist  was  encircled  with  an  elegant  string  and  whose 
soiled  countenance  needed  both  washing  and  ironing; 
a  string  of  withered  red  hips,  relics  of  the  previous  au- 
tumn; her  bow  and  arrows;  a  gnarled  bough  bearing  a 
curious  likeness  to  a  man  on  horseback.  (No  one  but 
Rue  had  ever  been  able  to  catch  the  similarity.)  A  dried 
lizard,  some  putty  images  and  the  pencil  sketches  (Ho- 
garthian  school)  of  Grandfather,  the  Evil  Gray  Ones 
and  the  triumphant  Rue.  After  they  had  finished  the 
inspection  of  this  Archaeological  Museum,  Rue  conducted 
her  visitor  past  the  three  little  steps  that  led  to  the  Silent 
Door. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Rue,  "Listen!  do  you  hear 
anything  ?" 

Frederick  did  not  hear  anything.  Rue  put  her  ear  to 
the  keyhole. 

"It  is  very  quiet  in  there  to-day."  She  shut  her  eyes. 

"  I  see  —  I  see  —  a  lovely  lady  with  golden  hair.  She 
is  singing  so  sadly  — so  sadly.  She  wants  to  get  out  of 
the  Silent  Room." 

Why  did  Frederick  suddenly  sit  down  on  the  ledge 
and  lean  his  head  against  the  wall  ?  Something  was  hurt- 
ing him,  for  his  mouth  twisted  and  he  closed  one  hand  on 
the  other  in  a  fierce  way. 

"Let's  go  outdoors  and  see  things  with  our  eyes  open. 
Let's  look  at  the  meadow-rue  and  see  if  it's  all  in  flower. 


RUE  IN  SWITZERLAND  389 

On  the  lawn  they  made  a  delightful  discovery,  which 
was  that  Rue's  head  and  the  top  of  the  meadow-rue  were 
just  on  a  level. 

"  This  means,"  said  Grandfather,  "  that  Rue  is  going 
to  have  a  party." 

Rue  had  never  had  a  party  in  her  life,  so  you  can 
imagine  the  ensuing  splendors  of  anticipation. 

"Perhaps,  perhaps,"   said   Grandfather   to  Frederick. 

"You  have  had  no  word,  no  clue?" 

"But  if  She  should  come  — on  that  day!" 

"  Who's  coming,  Uncle  Justinian  ? "  piped  Justine. 
"  Can  I  wear  my  pinky  hair  ribbing  if  She  comes  ?  " 


XLVI 
THE  PEDDLER  WITH  THE  BOOK 

THE    details    of    the    party  were   fully  arranged. 
The  number  of  guests  had  been  gradually  re- 
duced from  Rue's  original  scheme  which  included 
the  whole  of  Joppa  village  to   the  modest  number  of 
eight.  Uncle  Jupiter  was  the  eighth  and  Rue  insisted  on 
retaining  his  name  on  her  list  because  the  ice-cream  was 
to  be  ordered  of  him,  and  it  seemed  a  cruel  discrimination 
to  allow  him  to  serve  them  and  not  include  him  among 
the  guests. 

Another  inward  reason  was  the  rare  honor  that  his 
distinguished  color  and  enslaved  past  would  confer  upon 
Rue's  gathering. 

The  list  that  she  now  submitted  to  Grandfather  for 
approval  was  as  follows: 

GRANDFATHER!       /  ,  N 

.          c,  >      (of  course) 

AUNT  SERENA J 

FREDERICK  (because  we  all  want  him) 

JUSTINE  (so  that  she  won't  cry) 

RUE  (because  I'm  the  Person) 

ELLEN  (She  makes  the  cake) 

MR.  BOSCOWAY  (because  he  has  such  long  whiskers) 

UNCLE  JUPITER  (the  ice-cream  man  ought  always  to  be  in- 
vited) 

Grandfather,  expecting  a  much  longer  list,  had  told 

390 


THE  PEDDLER  WITH  THE  BOOK        391 

Rue  to  have  her  reasons  ready.  She  preferred  to  put 
them  in  written  form,  this  being  more  cogent  and  sub- 
stantial. Sometimes  the  most  effective  arguments  will  slip 
from  one  under  the  destructive  artillery  of  incredulous 
glances. 

She  had  added  in  very  fine  writing  at  the  bottom  of 
the  page  (hoping  that  Grandfather  would  not  notice), 

"  LILLO,  if  I  can  find  him." 

Grandfather  put  on  his  spectacles  and  deciphered  the 
addendum.  "  How  do  you  expect  to  find  this  mysterious 
Lillo?" 

"I'm  going  to  pin  the  invitation  on  some  tree  where 
maybe  he'll  pass  by,"  replied  she,  inventing  this  scheme 
as  she  spoke. 

"Very  well,"  said  Grandfather.  "If  Aunt  Serena  is 
willing,  I  have  no  further  objections  to  your  list." 

Familiar  and  heavenly  formula  to  a  child's  ear! 

That  afternoon,  while  the  family  were  napping,  each 
in  his  chosen  spot,  Rue  started  on  a  walk,  with  several 
carefully  worded  invitations  in  her  pocket  and  a  small 
pincushion  enameled  with  pins  around  its  perimeter.  She 
struck  across  the  meadows,  and  reached  the  river  road 
to  Pisgah. 

It  was  daisy  and  clover-time,  just  before  the  whir  of 
the  mowing-machines  would  be  heard  on  every  farm.  A 
hot  afternoon,  but  Rue's  enthusiasm  made  her  oblivious 
to  physical  sensation.  The  bees  were  abroad,  buzzing 
contentedly  from  flower  to  flower,  for  it  was  their  busiest 
season  and  stocks  were  quoted  high  in  the  clover  market. 


392  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

The  edges  of  the  road  were  marshy  and  in  the  long, 
bright  grass  Rue  discovered  a  glint  of  blue.  Upon  investi- 
gation, she  found  a  sluggish  rivulet  and  a  trailing  ribbon 
of  forget-me-nots.  These  she  felt  bound  to  gather.  Her 
nosegay  soon  became  too  heavy  for  one  hand  to  manage, 
which  was  a  pity,  for  there  were  many  more  flowers 
eager  to  be  picked.  She  selected  a  number  of  wiry  grasses, 
with  which  she  girded  the  waist  of  her  too  corpulent 
nosegay,  now  almost  as  large  as  herself.  While  thus  en- 
gaged, she  observed  a  peddler  in  a  wagon.  The  miscel- 
laneous burden  of  his  wagon  gave  forth  the  gleam  of  tin 
and  the  bulge  of  rags.  Both  wagon  and  horse  were  note- 
worthy, the  former  because  of  an  amphibious  sidling 
gait  to  its  enormous  wheels,  denoting  their  precarious 
attachment  to  the  body  of  the  wagon.  There  was  an  un- 
certainty about  the  horse's  gait,  an  ever  present  possibil- 
ity that  he  might  sit  down  on  his  haunches  to  rest. 
The  horse  was  of  a  nondescript  color  and  his  mane  and 
tail  were  plentifully  sprinkled  with  gray.  Rue  had  never 
before  seen  a  gray-haired  horse.  He  was  of  a  portly  figure, 
and  as  he  came  nearer,  she  saw  that  he  had  a  bright  and 
amiable  eye.  He  stopped  to  rest  himself  during  the  ascent 
of  an  imperceptible  hill,  and  then,  flicking  backward  an 
investigating  ear,  took  up  the  burden  of  life  without 
urging  from  the  peddler.  A  civil  and  prudent  beast  was 
the  gray-haired  horse,  an  invaluable  beast  for  one  of 
the  peddler's  absent-minded  habit. 

The  peddler's  inattention  to  the  road  was  occasioned 
by  his  absorption  in  a  book,  a  little  leather  book.  He  was 
a  black-bearded,  black-haired,  black-browed  man.  In 


THE  PEDDLER  WITH  THE  BOOK        393 

fine,  he  was  as  black  and  shaggy-looking  as  a  bear-skin 
sleigh-robe.  Nature  seemed  to  have  fitted  him  for  Arctic 
regions.  His  clothes  were  rusty  brown,  with  metal  buttons 
and  were  surmounted  by  a  purple  neckerchief  negli- 
gently tied  under  one  ear. 

Rue,  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  was  fascinated  by  the 
sight  of  this  peddler  with  the  book,  so  that  the  gray-haired 
horse  was  obliged  to  stand  still  and  thrust  forward  an 
inquiring  nose  as  much  as  to  say:  "To  what  am  I  in- 
debted for  this  honor  ?  " 

The  peddler  was  aroused  from  his  book  and  bent  his 
dreamy  eyes  upon  Rue,  who  stood  looking  up  at  him, 
clasping  her  huge  bouquet  to  her  bosom.  His  eyes  were 
so  unmitigatedly  black  that  they  seemed  to  drop  ink, 
and  if  you  had  been  dressed  in  white  you  would  actually 
have  looked  for  ink-blots  where  his  glances  fell. 

"  Did  you  speak  to  me  ? "  asked  the  peddler  in  a  voice 
like  one  awakened  from  a  trance.  There  was  an  alien 
cadence  to  his  words  which  cannot  be  reproduced.  Though 
he  spoke  in  fairly  correct  English,  Rue  asked  him  what 
he  had  said,  thinking  he  had  used  some  foreign  tongue. 
She  was  conscious  that  she  had  impeded  the  gray-haired 
horse  and  interrupted  the  peddler's  reading,  and  that  she 
ought  to  have  had  some  important  reason. 

"I  just  said  that  the  book  must  be  very  interest- 
ing." 

"Yes,  the  book  interests,"  he  replied  with  rich  gurg- 
lings in  his  throat  and  trills  of  his  r's  like  a  bird.  "  If  you 
be  going  my  way  I  gife  you  a  lift.  You  ups  with  me." 

Rue  decided  that  she  was  going  his  way  and  climbed 


394  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

into  the  wagon.  The  gray-haired  horse  resumed  his 
meditative  progress.  There  was  now  an  opportunity  to 
observe  more  closely  the  pages  of  the  book.  They  were 
brownish  like  his  clothes,  inscribed  with  characters 
exceedingly  black  like  himself  and  crooked  like  gesticu- 
lating dwarfs.  For  some  time  the  peddler  read  and  did 
not  notice  his  small  companion.  By  and  by  he  put  the 
thick  little  book  away  in  his  pocket  and  chirruped  to  the 
gray-haired  horse. 

"  Where  do  you  live  ? "  asked  Rue. 

He  pointed  to  the  east,  toward  the  Twin  Mountains 
where  a  spectral  half  moon  hung  in  the  daylight  sky. 

"Ofer  bey  on  t"  was  his  answer,  accompanied  by  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders  to  intimate  unspeakable  distance. 
Rue  nodded  comprehension.  He  was  probably  one  of  the 
Welsh  from  the  Hills. 

With  this  graceful  initiative  the  conversation  pro- 
ceeded briskly.  The  peddler  poured  out  his  oddly  tailored 
rhetoric  and  accompanied  it  with  fluent  speech  of  hands 
and  shoulders  and  eyebrows.  Rue  understood  and  felt 
tenderly  toward  him  because  of  his  lingual  deficiencies. 
In  order  to  set  him  perfectly  at  ease  concerning  her 
errand,  she  informed  him  that  she  was  intending  to  sup 
with  a  friend.  She  would  soon  show  him  the  house.  In 
the  meantime,  she  determined  to  prolong  the  intercourse 
with  this  most  interesting  man  and  to  select  a  house  and 
a  friend  only  when  necessity  arrived. 

As  they  approached  habitations,  he  broke  into  a 
melodious  roar,  with  wonderful  harmonic  pauses  and 
cadences  that  were  heart-piercing.  It  made  you  think  of 


THE  PEDDLER  WITH  THE  BOOK        395 

deaths,  dooms  and  destinies.  It  disturbed  your  veins  like 
the  music  of  the  sea.  The  chant  went  like  this: 


Oh,  O-!  bye-bye  Oh,  O  d- 

A-ags,  a-a-AOS; 
Gla-a-a;  san-AN-an- 

Dai-yai-YONt 


The  semicolons  indicate  exquisite,  fearful  pauses,  not 
quite  pauses,  but  worn-out  places,  with  a  tail  of  sound 
flickering  across  them  like  the  end  of  a  shooting-star. 
Where  the  capitals  are,  his  voice  climbed  upward  into  an 
awful  Valkyrie-cry  that  made  your  heart  jump.  Rue 
learned  that  this  doomful  delirious  song  meant: 

"  Buy  old  rags,  rags,  glass  and  iron." 

He  simply  opened  his  mouth,  between  those  black 
thickets  of  beard  and  the  sounds  streamed  forth  like  the 
roar  from  a  sea  cave. 

"How  excellently  you  can  warble,"  exclaimed  Rue. 
"  I  hardly  see  how  you  do  it." 

He  could  not  explain  the  process  any  more  than  the 
bobolinks  can  explain  their  ballads.  They  were  passing 
the  purple-waving  marshes  for  which  the  Jerusalem 
river  is  famous.  A  black-and-buff-winged  fellow  followed 
the  peddler's  course,  keeping  always  ahead  and  selecting 
the  tallest,  swayingest  of  tamarack  branches  for  his  brief 
halts.  Rue  pointed  out  to  the  peddler  this  aesthetic  whim 
of  bobolinks,  explaining  at  the  same  time  that  it  was 
lucky  there  were  enough  trees  to  go  around. 

"  There  can  only  be  one  bobolink  on  one  tree  for  there 
is  only  one  tiptop  spray." 


396  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

When  they  came  to  a  house  where  business  was  trans- 
acted, the  lady  looked  at  Rue  sharply. 

"You  be  Dr.  Penrith's  granddaughter,  if  I'm  not 
mistaken.  I  declare  to't,  you  be  a  long  way  from  home." 

"  I'm  going  to  visit  a  friend,  I  am  seven  years  old." 

Rue  hoped  that  the  peddler  would  not  linger  long.  At 
the  mention  of  Dr.  Penrith's  name,  he  turned  and  looked 
at  her  out  of  his  dreamy  black  eyes.  When  they  were  by 
themselves  he  said :  "  I  know  your  Grandfetter.  He  iss 
fery  goot  man.  And  your  mother  —  she  is  well  ?  " 

In  days  before  Rue's  time,  when  Danae  was  a  little 
fair-haired  child  and  during  the  years  of  Danae's  girlhood, 
the  reading  peddler  had  included  Joppa  in  his  itinerary, 
and  had  made  semi-annual  visits  to  Penrith  House.  But 
for  some  years  he  had  found  other  parts  more  profitable 
and  was  now  returning  to  Joppa  for  the  first  time  after 
his  long  absence.  Rue  explained  to  him  her  motherless 
condition  and  went  on  to  relate  many  other  facts  in  her 
life,  with  that  impetus  to  self-revelation  that  .one  often 
notices  between  strangers  on  railway  trains  and  steamers. 
The  detachment  from  one's  own  life  of  an  absolute 
stranger  stimulates  to  the  most  surprising  confidences. 
Rue  related  the  legends  of  Miss  Dainy,  the  incidents 
of  the  Silent  Door,  of  her  journey  to  New  York,  of  Cousin 
Frederick  and  Justine  and  Mr.  Boscoway,  and  finally 
ended  with  the  mystery  of  the  Singing  Lady  who  had 
kissed  her  in  the  deserted  garden.  She  also  told  him  of 
the  party  and  of  the  delicious  ice-cream  which  Uncle 
Jupiter  would  bring. 

The  peddler  showed   the  profoundest  interest  in  all 


THE  PEDDLER  WITH  THE  BOOK        397 

her  narrative.  When  she  had  finished,  he  reverted  to  an 
earlier  portion. 

"Your  Grandfetter  say  he  had  no  daughter?" 

"Yes." 

The  peddler  shook  his  shaggy  head  innumerable  times. 

"  The  lady  in  the  garten  kiss  you  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  You  do  not  efer  see  her  face  before  ?  " 

"  Not  ever-or-ever." 

"O,  I  am  sorry,  fery,  fery  mooch  sorry,"  said  the 
reading  peddler  in  a  voice  so  troubled  that  the  tears 
came  to  Rue's  eyes. 

Several  times  he  opened  his  lips  to  speak  and  then 
closed  them  without  a  word. 

"Can't  you  catch  the  words?"  asked  Rue  anxiously. 

He  gave  his  head  an  ambiguous  shake  and  fell  to  reading 
once  more  in  the  thick  little  book  till  they  came  to  a 
place  where  the  road  forked.  One  branch  went  up  a  steep 
hill,  the  other  continued  along  the  valley  in  an  uninter- 
esting way.  A  square  farmhouse  shaded  by  maple  trees 
showed  itself  in  the  latter  direction.  There  may  have 
been  houses  up  the  hilly  road,  but  it  was  so  steep  and 
took  such  a  sharp  turn,  one  could  not  see.  At  the  fork  in 
the  road,  the  gray-haired  horse  halted  and  inquired  of 
his  master  which  way  he  should  proceed.  The  peddler 
turned  to  Rue  with  the  same  mute  question  and  a  dawn- 
ing doubt  in  his  hitherto  trustful  eyes.  Rue  was  irresist- 
ibly attracted  to  the  hilltop  and  answered: 

"My  friends  live  just  on  top  of  that  hill,  thank  you." 

The  peddler  looked  surprised,  for  when  he  had  last 


398  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

traveled  through  the  neighborhood,  there  were  no  habi- 
tations between  "The  Forks"  and  the  stuttering  Welsh- 
man's house  on  the  far  side  of  the  mountain.  Nevertheless, 
he  pulled  a  line,  and  the  horse  pitted  himself  with  sturdy 
patience  against  the  ascent.  Then  the  peddler  lost  him- 
self in  the  pages  of  his  book. 

The  fields  were  full  of  dry  furze  and  everlasting  flowers, 
and  there  were  hedges  of  brake  and  sweet  fern  with  a 
hot  aromatic  odor.  Over  all  brooded  the  sleepy  spell 
of  a  mid- July  afternoon.  The  peddler  followed  the  dwarf - 
like  characters  in  the  page  with  a  slow  hairy  thumb. 

"I  should  like  very  much  to  have  you  read  aloud," 
suggested  Rue,  drawing  her  knees  together  with  excite- 
ment, "  that  is,  if  it  wouldn't  be  too  much  trouble." 

The  peddler  glanced  at  her  almost  unseeingly  and 
commenced  reading  in  a  labored  fashion,  like  a  school- 
boy translating  Virgil: 

"Jesus  he  stoop  and  wit  His  finger  on  the  grount  Jesus 
write  as  dough  He  not  at  all  hear  dem.  So  when  dey  not 
stop  for  still  askin'  of  Him,  He  liften  Himself  up  and 
speaks  Jesus:  'He  dat  be  among  you  withouten  sin,  let 
him  first  cast  at  her  de  stone.'  Again  he  stoop  down 
and  on  the  grount  Jesus  He  writes:" 

Every  time  at  the  name  Jesus  he  bowed  his  head. 
There  was  something  solemn  in  those  words  from  the 
little  book  and  in  the  peddler's  look  and  voice.  Rue 
folded  her  hands  and  her  heart  melted  with  emotion. 

Now  they  had  come  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  On  the  right 
side  of  the  road  was  a  Red  Bungalow,  half  hidden  in 
vines  and  trees,  with  stone  steps  and  a  small  flagged  walk 


THE  PEDDLER  WITH  THE  BOOK        399 

leading  to  the  front  door.  Other  odd  little  houses,  their 
windows  boarded  up,  were  nestled  in  a  hollow.  Not  a 
person  was  in  sight.  The  peddler  opened  his  mouth  and 
emitted  that  pleasant  roar. 

Oh,  O!  bye-bye;  Oh;  0,  ol 

A-ags,  a-a-AGS; 
Gla-a;  san-AN-an; 

Dal-yairYON" 

Not  a  person  appeared.  He  looked  at  Rue  question- 
ingly.  She  was  apologetic,  but  forgot  whether  he  was 
buying  or  selling. 

"I  am  afraid  they  do  not  want  to  buy  any  of  your 
nice  things;  I  am  sorry.  This  is  the  house  where  I  am 
going  to  stop.  I  will  tell  them  what  very  nice  things  you 
have." 

At  a  queer  noise  from  the  peddler  the  gray-haired 
horse  stopped,  planting  his  legs  wide  apart.  The  peddler 
lifted  Rue  down  over  the  enormous  wheel.  He  felt  hesi- 
tant about  leaving  her  at  this  quiet  house,  but  addressed 
her  tactfully. 

"I  go  ofer  de  hill  to  my  frient  John  Evans.  When  I 
returns  back,  little  lady,  if  you  wants  lift  home  again, 
here  I  s'all  be." 

He  remounted  his  cart. 

"  Oh,  Mister  Peddler,  wait  one  minute.  Will  you  come 
to  my  party  ?  It  is  to-morrow." 

The  invitation  was  but  a  slight  return  for  the  reading 
peddler's  kindness.  He  was  pleased  and  thanked  her 
heartily. 


400  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"  But  you  will  really  come  ?  Everybody  will  want  to 
see  you  and  there  will  be  plenty  of  ice-cream." 

The  peddler  promised  to  come,  said  good-by,  and 
pegged  on  his  way,  up  another  twist  of  the  same  hill 
and  down  into  the  valley  where  his  friend  John  Evans 
lived.  Rue  watched  him  for  a  few  minutes,  as  again  he 
busied  himself  in  the  pages  of  the  thick  little  book. 


XLVII 
IN  THE  RED  BUNGALOW 

THE  people  in  the  Red  Bungalow  had  arrived  the 
night  before  from  town.  In  Lillo's  vehement  mind 
a  dramatic  climax  was  shaping  itself.  His  play 
was  in  four  acts.  Act  one  had  but  two  characters,  himself 
and  the  little  girl  of  the  violet-meadow.  Act  two  was  laid  at 
Joseph  Beak's  glittering  Riverside  house  and  the  characters 
included  his  mother,  the  great  manager,  Angela  and  Rue. 
Act  three  was  the  drab  hallway  at  Lafayette  Place  where 
Dr.  Justinian  and  he  occupied  the  stage  center  with  a  bunch 
of  supes  for  background.  Act  four  was  to  untangle  the 
snarled  skeins  of  the  drama  and  all  the  characters  were  to 
be  brought  face  to  face.  The  scene  of  action  would  probably 
be  Penrith  House,  and  Lillo's  would  be  the  unexpected 
agency  by  which  the  tour-de-force  would  be  effected. 

Rue  and  her  Grandfather  must  live  somewhere  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  Red  Bungalow,  for  did  not  the  little 
girl  call  for  letters  at  the  Joppa  post-office  which  was  only 
three  miles  distant,  as  the  crow  flies. 

His  mother  had  refused  to  make  any  explanation  of  the 
mysteries  of  that  turbulent  night  in  New  York.  She  had  for- 
bidden him  to  broach  the  subject;  but  Lillo,  nothing  daunt- 
ed, resolved  to  set  out  on  a  mission  which  should  only  end 
with  a  happy  finale. 

401 


402  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

At  the  present  moment,  he  was  grappling  with  a  problem 
fully  as  difficult,  if  less  romantically  elusive.  He  was  in  the 
kitchen  of  the  Bungalow,  in  a  very  maelstrom  of  cooking 
utensils  and  condiments,  out  of  which  an  astonishingly  sim- 
ple menu  of  baked  potatoes,  stewed  tomatoes  and  broiled 
steak  was  due  to  burgeon  forth.  Babbie,  who  hated  domes- 
ticity and  was  again  in  straits,  had  given  Ned  free  play  in 
the  kitchen  that  day.  She  extolled  the  educational  value  of 
such  an  experience  for  her  boy. 

"  It's  so  awfully  good  for  the  kid,  don't  you  know.  I  be- 
lieve in  letting  a  man  learn  how  to  do  woman's  work.  It 
makes  them  more  considerate. " 

She  surveyed  her  plump  white  hands  with  satisfaction. 

Danae  listened  without  interest.  They  sat  curled  up  on 
the  window-seat,  and  could  look  down  into  the  valley  where 
the  Jerusalem  river  glinted  in  loops  and  stretches. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  girl  ?  You're  always  looking 
away  off,  far  away.  What  d'ye  see  ? " 

"  I'm  only  seeing  one  thing,  Babbie,  my  little  Rue.  I  al- 
most had  her  and  then  I  lost  her  again,  Babbie ! " 

"What,  girlie?" 

"  I'm  tired  of  hiding  things  and  stage  names  and  all  that. 
There's  a  lot  I  haven't  told  you. " 

"  You  needn't  tell  me,  Angela.  We  all  of  us  have  several 
lives  rolled  up  into  one,  and  it's  a  gamble  which  life  we  show 
to  which  person." 

"Now  let  me  tell  you,  Babbie.  If  I  were  only  brave 
enough,  I  would  have  told  you  long  ago.  Look  there,  across 
the  river — yes,  past  that  big  willow-tree  —  it  looks  little 
from  here — On,  up — under  the  white  -cloud  like  a  horse 


IN  THE  RED  BUNGALOW  403 

with  its  mane  cut  away  and  floating  backward — Yes, 
there !  Do  you  see  the  darkness  —  it's  an  orchard  —  and  tall 
locust-trees  and  a  Norway  spruce.  Oh,  I  can't  pick  them 
out  from  here,  but  I  know  them,  every  one.  That's  where  I 
live. " 

"  Where  you  live !  Angela ! " 

"  Call  me  Danae. " 

"  You  did  live  there  ?  I  don't  see  any  house. " 

"  There's  a  house.  I  did  live  —  I  do  live  there,  all  the  time, 
my  spirit. 

Rue  is  there,  my  little  daughter,  and  Father  and  Aunt 
Serena.  It  is  home.  I  ran  away  from  there  — years  ago.  Now 
you  know  why  I  laughed  and  cried  so  when  you  first  told 
me  you  had  rented  a  bungalow  among  the  Jerusalem 
hills." 

"  And  you  never  told  me. " 

"  I  want  to  go  home  —  to  see  them  all  —  If  I  could  fly  there 
—  invisible,  watch  them  all,  as  they  sit  around  the  dining- 
room  table.  Father  with  his  books  —  Rue,  her  violet  eyes. 
How  sweet  she  is,  Babbie,  how  darling!  I  am  shut  out. 
WTould  Father  forgive  me  if  he  knew  I  had  given  him  back 
Rue,  for  his  sake  ?  I  would  not  steal  her. " 

"  Go  to  him,  go  to  him,  Danae. " 

"I  dare  not.  After  all  these  years,  they  say  his  love 
has  died,  that  he  hates  me  now.  To  be  turned  away,  to 
meet  a  gaze  of  stone,  and  little  Rue  to  witness  her 
mother's  shame.  No,  she  must  remain  happy.  She  must 
never  know." 

"Danae,  your  father  does  not  hate  you." 

"  He  does,  he  does.   He  scorns,  he  disowns,  he  denies 


404  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

me.  I  have  ruined  his  life.  He  has  put  me  out  of  his  heart 
forever.  I  would  rather  not  see  his  face." 

"Danae,  who  told  you  this?  It  is  false.  I  know  it  is 
false." 

"  She  told  me,  little  Rue  —  I  saw  her  in  the  deserted 
garden  where  I  used  to  meet  —  him, —  her  father.  Oh, 
Barbara,  it  broke  my  heart  that  she  did  not  know  me.  She 
said  she  had  no  mother.  Father  has  never  forgiven  me.  He 
will  never  forgive  me,  never.  I  have  wounded  him  so  that 
he  is  turned  to  stone.  He  is  getting  old  now  and  his  hair  is 
gray,  she  says.  He  walks  with  a  cane  slowly.  We  used  to 
have  such  horseback  rides  together.  I  have  not  any  right 
to  my  own  child.  I  shall  never  see  her  again.  Oh,  Barbara! 
Barbara!  Her  name  is  Rue." 

"  There's  rue  for  you  and  here's  some  for  me  —  You  must 
wear  your  rue  with  a  difference.  Oh,  with  a  difference." 

"You've  told  me  the  truth,  Danae,  and  by  Heaven,  I'll 
do  no  less.  Beak  lied  to  you  that  night.  Your  father  does 
want  you.  He  has  forgiven  you  —  or  I  don't  know  the  look 
in  a  human  face.  I  saw  him.  He  came  to  me.  He  was  hunt- 
ing for  you." 

"Where?  Oh, Barbara!" 

"In  New  York.  Everywhere.  Forgive  me,  won't  you? 
You  know  you  made  me  promise  not  to  tell  any  one." 

"  But  my  father.  I  did  not  say  my  father." 

"  You  will  forgive  me,  Angela.  I  wanted  you  to  be  happy, 
to  marry  Beak." 

"  To  be  happy,  to  marry  Beak ! "  laughed  Danae  in  bitter 
irony. 

"Oh,  I  understand  now.  I  see  it  is  impossible  between 


IN  THE  RED  BUNGALOW  405 

you.  But  then  —  Beak  thought  he  might  win  you  by  keep- 
ing you  from  your  father,  by  — " 

"  Babbie,  all  the  time  I  hungered  so — you  knew,  you  knew!  " 

"  It's  not  too  late  now,  Danae  girl." 

A  man's  reproachful  voice  broke  in  upon  the  talk  be- 
tween the  two  women. 

"Babbie,  Babbie!  Don't  leave  a  fellow  alone  all  day." 

"Poor  Jenny,"  cried  Babbie.  "I  must  run  and  cheer 
him  up.  He's  hungry,  too." 

Meals  occurred  with  spasmodic  irregularity  at  the  Red 
Bungalow,  and  though  it  was  now  mid-afternoon,  the  late 
breakfast  had  not  yet  been  succeeded  by  another  meal, 
Ned  was  still  in  the  kitchen  trying  to  evolve  a  finished 
menu  from  his  maelstrom. 

Barbara  and  Jermyn  Day  went  to  the  piano  together 
and,  to  put  courage  into  Danae's  failing  heart,  they  played 
and  sang  merry  catches  from  a  Broadway  opera. 

Then,  leaving  Danae  to  herself,  they  strolled  out  to  a 
bench  under  the  pergola,  that,  with  anachronistic  audacity, 
some  vaudeville  architect  had  appended  to  the  East  In- 
dian Bungalow. 

Danae  paced  up  and  down  the  living-room  and  out 
again.  In  the  hall  by  the  settle  stood  a  tall  jar,  holding 
a  sheaf  of  field  flowers,  brown-eyed  Susans,  tangles  of 
clematis,  blue  succory  and  a  trailing  length  of  Virginia- 
creeper,  touched  scarlet  in  premature  decay.  She  stepped 
before  the  mirror  and  half  absent-mindedly,  half  with 
aesthetic  deliberation,  wreathed  blue  succory  and  crim- 
son leaves  in  the  soft  masses  of  her  hair.  She  was  singing 
to  herself  snatches  of  Ophelia's  songs. 


406  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

How  should  I  your  true  love  know 

From  another  one  ? 
By  his  cockle  hat  and  staff 

And  his  sandal  shoon. 

At  this  moment  the  reading  peddler's  unnoticed  cry 
sounded  from  the  mountain  lane,  but  the  front  windows 
were  closely  blinded  and  Jermyn  Day  on  the  other  side 
of  the  house  was  not  in  a  mood  to  heed  country  trafficers. 

Rue,  approaching  timidly  around  the  shady  corner, 
saw  a  short  red-brown  man  with  a  long  cigar  in  his 
mouth,  watching  his  own  spirals  of  smoke  and  directing 
them  with  a  connoisseur's  deftness.  In  a  moment  the 
billowy  lady  appeared  and  plumped  herself  beside  him. 
Her  head  and  waist  rose  out  of  a  sea  of  skirts,  that  crum- 
pled around  her  in  circular  lines  and  exposed  her  large 
legs,  clad  in  openwork  stockings.  The  man's  beard  was 
cut  short  and  turned  up  in  an  aggressive  manner,  while 
his  mustache  was  startlingly  long  and  stiff  and  lorded  it 
over  his  other  features.  The  man  and  woman  could  not 
see  Rue  as  she  approached. 

The  man  was  haw-hawing  over  some  joke  he  had 
made,  probably  about  stockings,  for  the  billowy  lady 
drew  down  her  skirts  in  an  injured  way,  yet  her  legs 
remained  as  much  exposed  as  ever. 

"Don't  laugh  so  loud,  Jenny,"  she  said  to  the  man.  "Miss 
Field  is  not  well  to-day,  and  I'm  broken-hearted  for  her." 

Then  they  saw  the  small  figure  of  a  child  walk- 
ing toward  them,  brown-pinafored,  chestnut-haired, 
with  a  sunbonnet  fallen  backward  on  her  shoulders.  She 
clasped  in  one  hand  a  wilted  nosegay  of  forget-me-nots. 


IN  THE  RED  BUNGALOW  407 

Babbie  Day,  who  had  only  had  the  one  glimpse  of  Rue, 
asleep  in  bed  that  eventful  evening  at  Joseph  Beak's,  did 
not  recognize  the  child  in  this  different  costuine  and  setting. 

The  man  stared,  the  woman  smiled  a  little.  Rue,  un- 
comfortable, but  trying  to  maintain  outward  composure, 
bowed  quaintly: 

"Good-morning,  it  must  be  almost  supper-time,  so  I 
thought  I  had  better  stop." 

"  Where  do  you  come  from  ? "  asked  the  Billowy  Lady 
kindly. 

Rue  thought  it  safer  not  to  betray  her  identity. 

"I  didn't  come  from  any  special  place.  I've  just  been 
riding  with  the  Reading  Peddler.  He's  such  a  nice  man. 
He  let  me  get  off  here." 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  live  in  a  house,"  said  Rue  secretively.  "They 
don't  care  if  I  go  off  walking.  I  always  come  home  and  I 
learned  my  lessons  before  I  went." 

Before  those  strange  faces  and  under  this  cross-exam- 
ination she  was  sick  at  heart  and  almost  ready  to  cry. 
It  seemed  to  her  important  to  maintain  a  careless  de- 
meanor. How  should  she  get  home  again  ?  She  did  not 
know.  She  wished  the  Reading  Peddler  would  return. 

The  reddish  man  haw-hawed  and  took  his  cigar  from 
his  mouth,  settling  himself  to  enjoyment  of  the  situation. 

"  Let's  hear  you  say  your  lessons,"  he  remarked  bluntly, 
making  his  eyes  stick  out  preposterously. 

They  were  odd  people  to  ask  so  many  questions  and 
not  invite  her  to  sit  down,  nor  to  stay  to  supper. 

"  Do  you  want  to  hear  verbs  or  the  poetry  piece  ? " 


408  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

They  decided  on  the  poetry  piece. 

"It's  a  very  long  book,  and  I've  only  learned  two 
stanzas.  I  began  it  yesterday,  but  I  like  it  ever  so  much. 
I  will  say  it  from  the  beginning. 

"A  gentle  knight  came  pricking  o'er  the  plain  — " 
Midway  of  the  stanza  Rue  stopped.  Perhaps  they  were 
luring  her  on  to  recite  and  there  was  not  to  be  any  reward. 
She  did  not  smell  the  crisp  appetizing  odor  that  preceded 
Ellen's  savory  meals.  Only  a  peculiar  sooty  smell  issued 
from  somewhere,  and  rattling  noises  as  of  an  angry  person. 

"I'm  too  hungry  to  say  any  more  now.  How  soon  do 
you  think  supper  will  be  ready,  please  ? " 

"  That's  what  I  want  to  know,  too, "  burst  out  the  man 
crossly.  He  seemed  just  to  have  realized  his  injuries. 

"  Look  here,  Barbe,  I  won't  stand  for  this  picnic  racket 
much  longer.  It's  up  to  you  to  turn  in  and  give  us  a 
decent  meal." 

"Oh,  rubbish,  Jenny,"  laughed  the  Billowy  Lady. 
"The  maid's  coming  out  to-morrow  for  sure.  We  can 
scratch  along  on  tinned  stuff  till  then." 

The  man  took  out  his  watch.  "Half-past  three,"  he 
announced  grimly. 

"I  told  the  boy  to  put  the  potatoes  in  an  hour  ago," 
remarked  the  Billowy  Lady  easily.  "And  if  he  doesn't  know 
how  to  broil  a  beefsteak,  it's  time  he  should  learn." 

The  boy's  education  in  this  respect  was  evidently  on  her 
conscience.  Then  Lillo  rushed  through  the  open  door,  a  fork 
in  his  hand  and  an  apron  tied  by  the  sleeves  around  his  neck. 

"Mommer,"  he  shouted,  "  the  whole  steak's  fell  into 
the  coals  and  it's  burning  up  like  blazes." 


IN  THE  RED  BUNGALOW  409 

At  this  disastrous  announcement  both  the  man  and 
the  \voman  hurried  precipitately  into  the  house.  They 
left  Lillo  standing  on  the  steps.  He  had  caught  sight  of 
Rue's  disconsolate  figure, 

"Rue,  Rue,"  he  cried  in  his  ringing  boy's  voice.  "What 
are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

This,  his  favorite  form  of  salutation,  brusque  as  it 
was,  filled  Rue's  heart  with  a  sense  of  friendly  protection. 
She  ran  to  him  and  seized  his  hand. 

"Oh,  Lillo,  Lillo,  please  take  me  home.  I  don't  like 
to  be  so  far  away  from  home." 

Neither  of  them  noticed  that  at  the  sound  of  Rue's 
name,  Danae's  slight  blue-robed  figure  had  come  to  the 
threshold  of  the  door.  Her  lips  were  parted  and  her  eyes 
wide  open  and  one  hand  was  pressed  to  her  heart,  as  if 
to  restrain  its  wild  beating.  But  she  kept  silence,  watching 
the  two  children. 

"  Whatever  brought  you  to  this  house  ? "  insisted  the 
explicit  Lillo,  "I  never  expected  to  see  you  here.  I'm 
awful  glad,  though." 

The  happy  memory  of  her  party  that  was  to  be  occurred 
to  the  little  girl. 

"I  came  to  invite  you  to  my  party.  To-morrow  I'm 
going  to  be  the  same  highness  as  the  meadow-rue  on  our 
lawn  and  so  Grandfather  says  I  shall  have  a  celebration 
because  my  name  is  Rue." 

"Oh,"  came  a  broken  little  cry  from  behind  them. 

They  turned  and  Rue  recognized  Miss  Lady  of  the 
deserted  garden.  She  stood  there,  in  her  long  blue  coat 
that  she  had  wrapped  around  her  for  warmth  earlier 


410  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

in  the  day,  with  the  blue  succory  and  scarlet  leaves  in 

her  pale  hair. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Rue,  wonder  and  awe  in  her  eyes. 

"Come  here,  Rue,  Rue,"  cried  the  lady  passionately. 
"  Rue  for  remembrance." 

"That  is  not  my  name,"  said  Rue  gently.  "It  is  Rue 
Penrith.  I  am  Grandfather's  little  girl." 

The  lady  stooped  and  strained  the  child  to  her  breast. 
One  would  not  have  thought  that  the  fragile  form  had  so 
much  strength. 

"I  am  warmer  now.  I  am  warmer,"  she  murmured. 
Then  she  let  go  and  held  Rue's  face  between  her  two 
hands,  looking  straight  into  her  eyes.  "  Rue,  you  are  my 
little  girl.  I  am  your  mother." 

Rue  looked  at  her  in  deep  and  wondering  silence. 
"  Then  you  may  come  to  my  party,"  she  said  solemnly. 
"  I  will  go  home  and  tell  Grandfather  that  I  have  found 
a  mother." 

"No,  no,"  said  Miss  Lady,  with  frightened  eyes.  "Do 
not  tell  Grandfather." 

"But  you  will  come.  Please,  please  come!"  entreated 
Rue. 

"  I  will  come.  I  will  1 1  will!"  cried  the  lady  in  a  strong 
voice,  and  yet  as  if  the  words  were  difficult. 

"  I  am  so  glad,  so  very  glad  I  have  found  you,"  said  Rue. 

"You  will  not  tell  Grandfather?  I  do  not  want  him  to 
know  beforehand.  I  want  him  to  see  me  without  know- 
ing—  beforehand.  You  will  not  tell  Grandfather?" 

The  lady  begged  like  a  little  child. 

"I  will  not  tell  Grandfather,"  promised  Rue.   "And 


IN  THE  RED  BUNGALOW  411 

you  need  not  be  afraid,  Miss  Lady.  I  can  keep  a  secret 
as  dark  as  night." 

"Do  you  think,  ah,  do  you  think  he  will  be  glad  to 
see  me  ? "  the  lady  asked. 

Rue  answered,  giving  one  of  those  whimsical  little 
reasons  that  children  so  often  give  and  which  are  hard 
for  grown  people  to  understand. 

"  I  think  he  will  be  glad  to  see  you  —  if  you  come  with 
those  flowers  and  leaves  in  your  hair." 

They  heard  the  doomful  voice  out  on  the  mountain 
lane. 

"Bye-bye;  bye-bye  oh," 

"That  is  my  friend.  He  has  come  to  take  me  home." 

Miss  Lady  could  hardly  let  Rue  go  from  her  arms. 

"What  time  is  your  party,  darling  Rue  ?" 

"My  party  is  at  two  o'clock.  I  liked  to  have  it  early 
so  as  to  have  it  long." 

It  was  the  first  time  in  Rue's  life  that  she  had  ever 
known  anything  to  happen  at  two  o'clock.  She  almost 
feared,  at  times,  if  it  were  not  of  ill-omen  to  set  her  party 
at  that  barren  and  unproductive  hour. 

The  peddler  and  the  gray-haired  horse  and  Rue  were 
soon  lost  to  sight  below  the  steep  curve  of  the  mountain 
lane.  Danae  was  unable  to  eat.  She  went  about  the 
Bungalow,  laughing,  crying,  singing  little  snatches  of  sad 
songs. 

Which  was  more  of  a  child,  Rue  or  her  mother,  it 
would  be  hard  to  say. 


XLVIII 
THE  LONGEST  MORNING  THAT  EVER  WAS 

AT  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  Rue  awakened  and 
crept  into  Justine's  bed.  They  enjoyed  an  hilar- 
ious seance  together,  repressed  at  intervals  by 
poor  Grandfather's  warning  knock  on  his  side  of  the  wall- 
There  is  something  peculiarly  conducive  to  gaiety  in 
being  nightgowned,  bedded,  and  wide-awake  at  five 
o'clock  with  a  congenial  spirit  beside  you.  The  very 
necessity  for  caution  in  the  fact  that  elderly  people  are 
trying  to  prolong  their  miserable  slumbers  adds  the  last 
required  ingredient  of  spice.  Thus,  bound  together  in 
more  than  usual  amity  by  the  merry  hour  and  the  coming 
festivity,  Rue  and  Justine  chatted  on  diverse  subjects. 

"This  is  the  same  as  a  birthday  party,"  said 
Rue.  "  No  one  need  ever  say  again  that  I  have  no  birth- 
days." 

"You  never  did  have  one  before,"  remarked  Justine 
defensively. 

"Different  people  begin  to  have  them  at  different 
times,"  said  Rue.  "It  took  me  longer  to  begin,  that's  all." 
She  thought  of  something  to  add  that  would  tease  Justine. 
"The  nicer  you  are  the  longer  it  takes  you  to  have  your 
first  birthday.  I  am  seven  years  old,  but  this  is  my  first 
birthday,  because  I  am  so  very  nice." 

412 


THE  LONGEST  MORNING  413 

Justine  reflected  sadly  on  her  own  four  disgraceful 
celebrations,  while  Rue's  eyes  twinkled. 

"I  don't  care,  I'm  going  to  ask  Aunt  S'weena,"  pouted 
Justine.  "  Aunt  S'weena,  Aunt  — ' 

At  this  point  occurred  one  of  Grandfather's  most 
decided  knocks. 

"I  was  just  funning,"  said  Rue.  She  deserved  additional 
glory  in  return  for  the  many  years  when  she  had  gone 
birthdayless  and  little  girls  like  Enid  and  Geraldine  had 
taunted  her  airily.  "  I'm  no  longer  like  Melchizzy  Decker, 
because  I  have  a  —  " 

She  caught  herself  just  before  the  word  mother  escaped 
her  lips,  remembering  in  time  that  not  a  person  was  to 
know  till  Miss  Lady  herself  appeared,  blue-robed  and 
leaf-crowned,  at  the  mystic  hour  of  two. 

The  sudden  pause  aroused  Justine's  attention. 

"A— what?" 

"Oh,  nothing." 

"  You  were  going  to  say  somefing.  A  —  what  ?  "  insisted 
Justine,  with  ever-increasing  suspicion.  For  it  is  a  code 
of  honor  among  children  that  if  you  begin,  you  must 
finish.  It  is  like  putting  your  finger  on  a  checker.  You  are 
inviolably  held  to  the  move. 

"It's  somefin  that  Aunt  S'weena  and  Uncle  don't 
know  about,"  said  Justine  in  pious  horror. 

"This  was  what  I  was  going  to  say,"  began  Rue,  to 
Justine's  satisfaction,  who  had  been  confident  that  her 
final  accusation  would  fetch  the  unwilling  confession. 

"  I'm  not  like  Melchizzy  Decker  because  —  I  have  a 
red  coat  and  cap." 


414  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Justine,  who  was  shallowly  shrewd  yet  deeply  simple, 
was  both  appeased  and  disappointed,  by  this  completed 
statement.  She  had  expected  something  more  sensational, 
such  as  that  Rue  had  secreted  somewhere  in  the  house 
a  kitten  or  a  Newfoundland  puppy,  standing  threats 
with  which  Aunt  Serena's  peace  of  mind  was  disturbed. 

"Who  was  Melfizzy  Pecker?"  asked  Justine,  pleased 
at  this  addition  to  her  vocabulary. 

"  He  was  somebody  in  old  ancient  times,"  replied  Rue, 
unconsciously  imitating  Mr.  Boscoway's  "old  ancient" 
voice.  "  He  had  neither  beginning  of  days  nor  end  of  life. 
I'm  not  like  him  any  more." 

She  half  regretted  her  loss  of  this  unique  distinction. 

Retributive  Justice  had  its  way.  The  merry  hours  that 
had  passed  so  quickly  before  breakfast  while  the  older 
people  clung  to  their  perturbed  pillows,  were  followed  by 
what  was,  for  the  children,  an  interminable  morning. 

It  certainly  was  the  longest,  the  most  attenuated,  the 
most  sluggishly  progressing  morning  that  had  ever 
happened  since  the  world  began.  Rue  would  occupy  her- 
self in  a  million  ways  and  then,  returning  to  the  clock, 
would  find  that  only  five  minutes  had  passed.  Of  course 
she  knew  it  was  not  really  so.  If  all  the  clocks  that  had 
ever  been  made  were  placed  in  a  row  and  all  witnessed 
unanimously  to  that  lapse  of  time  and  to  this  was  added 
the  strengthening  testimony  of  Grandfather,  Aunt 
Serena,  Mr.  Boscoway  and  Ellen,  as  well  as  the  supreme 
information  culled  from  that  more  occult  and  sacred 
timepiece,  Grandfather's  vest-pocket  watch,  Rue  would 
still,  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  have  known  that  their  testi- 


THE  LONGEST  MORNING  415 

mony  was  a  fallacy,  a  lure,  an  evil  conspiracy  against 
the  truth. 

If  five  minutes  is  a  year,  how  many  years  will  roll  by 
before  two  o'clock  ?  It  was  a  neat  arithmetical  problem 
which  Aunt  Serena  proposed  that  Rue  should  demon- 
strate. Aunt  Serena  had  the  goodness  to  provide  Rue 
with  a  newly  washed  slate  and  slate-pencil,  to  facilitate 
the  problem. 

"  It  is  very  simple,"  said  she,  "  you  have  only  to  divide 
60  by  5  and  then  multiply  by  — "  Aunt  Serena  had  a 
clever  way  of  diminishing  mathematical  difficulties  by  a 
rapid  enunciation  and  a  casual  tone  of  voice. 

Rue  shivered  and  fled  precipitately  from  the  vicinity 
of  the  slate  and  slate-pencil.  There  is  something  livid 
and  sullen  about  the  very  touch  and  appearance  of  these 
symbols  of  exact  science.  She  stationed  herself  opposite 
the  tall  clock  in  the  hall  and  determined  to  watch  it  per- 
sistently and,  if  possible,  catch  it  in  the  nefarious  act  of 
stopping  at  intervals,  thus  further  elongating  an  already 
sufficiently  attenuated  morning.  It  was  now  only  nine- 
thirty-five  and  Rue  had  been  active  and  flourishing 
since  the  hour  of  five  A.M. 

The  clock  was  sly  and,  noting  her  espionage,  ticked 
imperturbably.  Rue  concealed  herself  behind  the  front 
door,  peering  through  the  lacquered  grating  of  the  upper 
half,  and  from  this  coign  of  vantage  she  distinctly  ob- 
served the  pendulum  of  the  clock  to  dawdle  frightfully, 
and  in  fact  become  moribund  with  every  swing.  A  similar 
phenomenon  may  be  observed  among  the  street  laborers 
on  a  city  contract,  with  whom  every  stroke  of  the  spade 


416  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

seems  destined  to  be  their  last.  The  hands  of  the  clock 
moved  in  an  adhesive  manner,  as  flies  do  after  a  visit  to 
the  mouth  of  the  molasses  jug. 

From  this  retreat  Rue  emerged  because  of  her  dis- 
covery by  Cousin  Frederick. 

"I  was  amusing  myself,"  she  replied  in  answer  to  his 
surprised  query. 

She  was  almost  tempted  to  tell  him  of  the  dawdling 
pendulum  and  the  slothful  hands,  but  decided  not  to 
impugn  the  character  of  a  hitherto  blameless  article  of 
household  furniture. 

She  went  outdoors  to  see  if  the  passage  of  time  might 
not  be  accelerated  under  the  open  sky.  It  was  hardly 
possible  that  she  could  sustain  her  existence  till  the 
auspicious  event  took  place.  If  God  made  the  world  in 
seven  ordinary  days  then  surely  in  the  space  of  a  pre- 
ternatural morning  like  this  he  could  construct  a  world 
so  vast  that  its  geography  could  never  be  acquired  even 
in  an  indefatigable  life-time  of  study.  Rue  sat  down  on 
Mr.  Boscoway's  wooden  chair  in  the  shade  of  the  barn. 

"  Land  of  the  livin', "  said  heartless  Ellen,  passing  by  to 
get  fresh  water  at  the  pump,  "  you've  got  as  long  a  face 
on  ye  as  Terry  O'Tooley  they  tell  about." 

Ellen's  speech  teemed  with  allusions  to  historic  person- 
ages of  whose  lives  the  mystic  "  They  "  had  been  chroniclers. 
But  beyond  these  allusions  she  could  never  be  persuaded 
to  go,  and  the  personages  forever  remained  shrouded  in 
the  tantalizing  simile.  "Why  don't  yez  play  or  set  about 
some  of  yer  doins  ? " 

When  Ellen  was  particularly  officious  she  addressed 


THE  LONGEST  MORNING  417 

one  in  the  plural  number.  That  morning  she  was  officious 
becauseN  she  had  sole  possession  of  the  kitchen,  both 
children  having  been  excluded  by  imperial  edict 

"I've  thought  of  everything  in  the  world,  Ellen,  that 
a  person  could  do,  and  there's  not  a  single  thing  that's 
really  interesting,  unless"  (ingratiatingly)  "you'd  let  me 
come  into  the  kitchen  and  watch  you  cook." 

"You  know  what  The  Grandfayther  tolt  you,"  was 
Ellen's  virtuous  answer,  as  she  marched  firmly  to  the 
house  with  her  splashing  pail. 

Yet  Ellen  knew  perfectly  well  that  it  was  not  The 
Grandfayther  but  herself  who  primarily  stood  in  the 
way  of  Rue's  admission. 

By  and  by  it  transpired  that  there  had  been  an  impor- 
tant omission  in  the  list  of  invited  guests,  to  wit, 
Augustus  the  horse.  Of  course  Augustus  must  be  a 
guest  at  the  party. 

"  But  he  could  not  really  sit  down  at  the  table  with  us," 
said  Aunt  Serena,  a  humorous  suggestion  that  called 
forth  many  sallies  from  Rue  and  Justine. 

"  And  have  a  napkin  round  his  neck  ?  " 

"And  eat  with  a  fork!" 

"  And  rest  his  front  hoofs  on  the  table." 

"  And  have  a  big  enormous  bowl  to  drink  from,"  added 
Rue,  mindful  of  the  circular  watering- trough. 

The  final  accepted  amendment  was  that  Augustus, 
free  from  the  mortification  of  carriage  and  harness, 
should  be  tethered  comfortably  at  the  horse-block  under 
the  locust-tree,  given  a  plentiful  supply  of  delicious  green 
grass  and  clover,  with  lumps  of  sugar  for  dessert,  and  thus 


418  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

allowed  to  participate  in  the  revelry  of  the  hour.  Rue 
and  Justine  were  furnished  abundant  occupation  in  pro- 
viding the  clover  and  grass.  Those  who  were  present  on 
the  occasion  say  that  more  than  once,  when  a  pleasant 
laugh  or  a  pretty  story  went  round,  Augustus's  lips  were 
seen  to  part,  in  an  appreciative  equine  smile. 

During  this  preparation  for  Augustus's  delectation, 
Rue's  spirits  perceptibly  rose.  She  had  noticed  that  the 
older  people,  when  caught  in  conversation  by  themselves, 
were  serious,  almost  sad.  They  talked  quietly  and  stopped 
short  when  Rue  came  near  them,  summoning  to  their 
faces  the  pale  smiles  which  cloak  a  heartache. 

Once  Rue  thought  she  heard  Frederick  speak  about 
the  Silent  Door.  And  Grandfather  answered  quickly: 
"  Oh,  not  yet,  not  yet." 

"You  are  not  sad,  Grandfather,  because  I  am  the 
highness  of  the  meadow-rue  ? " 

"  My  darling,  we  are  much  older  than  you  and  we  haxre 
many  serious  things  to  think  about." 

The  obvious  fact  of  their  being  older  was  no  reason 
for  sadness,  and  she  also  had  many  serious  things  to 
think  about. 

There  was  the  secret  of  Miss  Lady's  arrival,  a  serious 
secret,  indeed.  Rue  hoped  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart 
that  Grandfather  would  be  glad  to  see  Miss  Lady. 


XLIX 
THE  FATEFUL  HOUR  OF  TWO  O'CLOCK 

AROUND  table  was  set  on  the  strip  of  lawn 
between  the  Rose-of -Sharon- tree  and  the  meadow- 
rue  plant.  The  lawn  had  been  beautifully  cut  with 
the  whizzing  lawn-mower,  so  that  the  grass  was  as  short 
as  short  can  be  and  not  an  obnoxious  dandelion  blossom 
nor  a  plantain  leaf  showed  itself.  Grandfather  and  Mr. 
Boscoway  were  proud  of  this  bit  of  emerald  plush  in  the 
rambling  grounds  around  Penrith  House.  Frederick  was 
coming  to  share  their  pride  and  was  heedful  to  locate 
his  chair  differently  each  day  so  that  his  feet  should  not 
wear  a  spot  in  the  grass. 

Augustus,  glossy  and  self-complacent,  was  already  at 
his  post  of  observation  and  munching  his  pile  of  clover 
with  that  splendid  sound  which  horses  make  when  they 
eat.  As  he  was  impolite  enough  to  begin  before  the  other 
guests  arrived,  Rue  and  Justine  removed  the  succulent 
feast  from  under  his  very  nose. 

The  table,  set  with  its  snowy  linen,  with  the  gold  bor- 
dered china  and  with  the  tumblers  on  slender  stems, 
looked  surprised  at  itself  to  be  standing  out  there  under 
the  trees,  without  any  carpet  under  its  feet  and  the  un- 
roofed blue  sky  above  it. 

Ellen,  in  a  stiffly  starched  gown,  with  new  shoes  in 

419 


420  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

honor  of  the  party,  creaked  back  and  forth  between  the 
blind  door  and  the  table,  carrying  edibles,  the  comfort- 
able kind  that  do  not  have  to  be  instantly  transferred 
from  the  fire  to  your  mouth.  There  was  sliced  tongue  and 
meat  jelly,  and  deviled  eggs  and  pickled  cucumbers, 
gnarled  and  wholly  desirable. 

Later,  oh,  later  there  was  to  follow  —  but  we  must  not 
forestall  those  later  crisp  and  flaky  joys.  We  will  only 
say  that  from  the  sounds  and  odors  that  had  penetrated 
the  upper  regions,  sundry  sounds  of  delicacies  that 
required  beating  and  whipping  and  pounding,  sundry 
smells  of  mingled  sweetness  and  spices  —  one  would 
deduce  that  there  were  to  be  cakes  of  astounding  ornate- 
ness,  and  pastries  of  artful  design  and  generous  interior 
depths. 

Promptly  at  half-past  one  o'clock  Rue  and  Justine 
were  freed  from  Aunt  Serena's  ministering  hands,  and 
repaired  to  the  lawn  to  superintend  the  final  operations. 
They  walked  gingerly  in  holiday  clothes  and  shoes,  con- 
scious of  the  stamp  of  elegance  upon  hair  and  finger- 
nails. 

Some  enterprising  insects  had  already  arrived  upon 
the  scene  of  action  and  were  conducting  a  research  party 
about  the  viands  prepared  for  their  delectation.  A  capable 
and  able-bodied  ant  took  the  lead.  News  was  rapidly 
being  spread  among  the  remoter  districts  and  commis- 
sary expeditions  were  being  fitted  out  as  far  away  as  the 
ant-city  under  the  cherry-tree  at  the  top  of  the  garden. 

Augustus  had  managed  to  free  himself  from  his  halter 
and  was  galloping  about  the  orchard,  with  an  eye  directed 


THE  FATEFUL  HOUR  421 

toward  the  corn-patch.  He  evaded  with  playful  coquetry 
Mr.  Boscoway's  advances. 

Uncle  Jupiter  was  the  first  guest  to  arrive,  toiling  with 
the  ice-cream  keg  in  one  hand  and  the  other  swung  out 
to  keep  his  balance.  The  ice-cream  pail  was  large  and 
wooden,  packed  with  slushy  ice  surrounding  a  small 
receptacle  in  the  middle.  This  latter  was  ensheathed  in  a 
wet  cloth.  If  ever  an  ice-cream  keg  spoke,  this  one  did, 
loudly  proclaiming  its  ambrosial  contents  but  saying 
also,  "Touch  me  not  till  the  appointed  time." 

Uncle  Jupiter  placed  his  burden  in  the  shade  of  the 
lilac-bush  and  mopped  his  sweating  brow.  His  waistcoat 
was  unbuttoned  more  copiously  than  usual.  The  haughty 
collar  with  which  he  had  started  out  was  reduced  to  sub- 
missive meekness,  and  adapted  itself  to  every  turn  of  his 
black  neck.  His  complexion  showed  a  high  degree  of 
luster  like  the  blackest  of  ebony  and  his  gray  woolly  head 
was  set  off  to  unusual  advantage.  Rue  greeted  him  re- 
spectfully and  seated  him  in  the  rustic  bench  under  the 
locust-tree,  where  he  professed  to  be  enjoying  himself 
mightily  without  need  of  further  entertainment. 

Augustus  had  by  this  time  been  cajoled  to  the  horse- 
post  and  securely  fastened.  One  would  not  have  suspected 
a  beast  of  such  sobriety  to  be  capable  of  such  frivolity 
in  his  hours  of  liberty.  Mr.  Boscoway  added  himself  to 
the  number  of  expectant  guests  and  occupied  the  round- 
backed  wooden  chair  from  the  barn.  He  placed  it  between 
the  pump  and  the  horse-post,  within  range  of  the  lunch 
table  and  not  too  far  from  his  own  familiar  territory. 
Rue  expected  that  he  would  be  too  aristocratic  to  share 


422  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

the  general  provision  and  would  bring  a  brown  paper 
parcel  and  the  secretive  dinner-pail,  but  no  sign  of  them 
yet  appeared. 

His  hair  was  carefully  combed,  a  long  lock  being 
wrested  from  its  natural  position  and  distributed  over 
the  bald  spot  on  top  of  his  head.  The  trousers  which  he 
wore  were  elegantly  patched  with  rectangular  designs  and 
a  suspicion  of  wilted  white  glimmered  below  his  short 
coat  sleeves.  He  and  Uncle  Jupiter  conversed  with  each 
other  across  the  wide  space  which  separated  them. 
Altogether,  except  for  the  conversation,  it  was  a  little 
like  early  prayer-meeting  when  only  the  deacons  have 
come. 

Rue's  invitation  to  the  Peddler  and  to  Lillo  had  already 
been  ratified,  but  —  "Maybe  somebody  else  is  coming," 
she  said  mysteriously,  and  advised  that  an  extra  plate 
be  laid  at  the  table. 

Aunt  Serena  and  Grandfather  insisted  on  more  ex- 
plicit information,  but  Rue  remained  mysterious. 

"You  can't  always  tell  who  might  come  to  a  party," 
she  said,  as  if  her  experience  in  party  giving  had  been  vast. 

The  extra  plate  was  laid,  for,  as  Cousin  Frederick  said, 
this  was  Rue's  day  and  everything  must  be  exactly  as  she 
wished.  The  three  grown-up  people  came  from  the  house, 
with  a  look  upon  their  faces  as  if  they  had  been  crying, 
but  they  smiled  and  said  pleasant  things  to  everybody. 
Cousin  Frederick  was  white,  with  dark  circles  under  the 
eyes;  Grandfather's  cheeks  were  drawn  to  stern  lines  and 
Aunt  Serena's  eyelids  trembled,  but  they  were  cheerful 
in  their  voices  and  made  Uncle  Jupiter  and  Mr.  Boscoway 


THE  FATEFUL  HOUR  423 

feel  at  home.  The  latter  had  brought  a  shining  new  trowel 
for  Rue,  with  which  he  laid  off  her  height  and  that  of  the 
meadow-rue. 

"Just  abaout  the  self-same  hayt'th,"  he  said.  "There 
might  be  just  a  leetle  speck's  difference,  but  none  to  no- 
ways count." 

Mr.  Boscoway  was  a  cautious  gentleman  and  always 
guarded  his  speech. 

Uncle  Jupiter  then  produced  his  present  for  Rue,  a 
handsome  book  comprehensively  entitled  "From  Cradle 
to  Grave." 

The  unworldly  Rue,  overwhelmed  by  these  unexpected 
gifts,  was  on  the  point  of  bursting  into  tears  of  joy  when 
the  rumble  of  wheels  was  heard  and  the  gray-haired  horse 
appeared,  breaking  through  the  foliage  of  elderberry- 
bushes  at  the  end  of  the  grassy  lane. 

"Oh,  there's  the  Reading  Peddler,"  she  cried,  "and 
Lillo,  but  —  but  —  where's  — " 

Only  Lillo  and  the  peddler  occupied  the  rickety  seat 
in  the  two- wheeled  wagon.  The  peddler  looked  as  shaggy 
and  sleigh-roby  as  ever.  His  metal  buttons  had  acquired 
an  extra  polish,  and  his  purple  handkerchief  was  tied  under 
his  left  instead  of  his  right  ear.  He  made  a  mysterious  sign 
to  Rue,  and  as  soon  as  possible,  under  the  confusion  of 
arranging  a  standing-place  for  the  gray-haired  horse,  he 
gained  her  private  ear. 

"Her  iss  coming,"  he  whispered.  "I  puts  her  down  a 
piece  back,  she  wass  wanting  to  walk." 

"And  now  that  we  are  all  assembled,"  said  Grandfather 
in  his  stately  way,  "shall  we  draw  up  and  partake  ?" 


424  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

Mr.  Boscoway  and  Uncle  Jupiter  confessed  to  having 
already  dined  (an  act  of  perfidy!),  and  insisted  on  re- 
maining where  they  were  and  enjoying  the  feast  as  spec- 
tators. Ellen  spread  napkins  over  their  knees  which  made 
them  look  more  a  part  of  the  family. 

"Please  let's  wait  a  few  minutes,"  murmured  Rue, 
dragging  on  Grandfather's  hand,  "maybe  Some  One  else 
will  come  and  would  feel  badly  to  be  late." 

But  Ellen  was  bringing  on  the  hot  dishes  and  Justine 
was  arraying  herself  in  her  napkin,  and  it  was  a  quarter 
after  two  o'clock.  Aunt  Serena  sat  down  and  that  settled 
the  matter.  Everybody  followed  her  example,  including 
the  peddler  and  the  unwilling  Rue.  Grandfather  asked  a 
blessing. 

"  For  what  thou  hast  set  before  us,  O  Lord,  help  us 
to  be  truly  grateful,  and  as  thou  hast  provided  for  our 
bodily  hunger,  minister  also,  we  pray  Thee,  unto  our 
spiritual  hunger,  blessing  both  those  who  are  present  and 
the  absent  ones  for  Christ's  sake,  Amen." 

This  was  followed  by  a  fervid  amen  from  the  shaggy 
peddler  and  a  commendatory  groan  from  Uncle  Jupiter's 
bench.  It  was  the  same  blessing  that  Grandfather  had 
asked  for  years,  and  yet  Rue  for  the  first  time  noticed  that 
he  prayed  for  the  absent  ones.  Perhaps  it  was  the  shake 
in  his  voice  which  made  the  phrase  stand  out. 

Justine  clamored  for  a  biscuit  and  jam,  but  Rue  left 
her  food  untouched  on  her  plate.  The  peddler  smiled  at  her 
and  nodded  his  shaggy  head  several  times,  much  to  the 
bewilderment  of  Cousin  Frederick.  Aunt  Serena  thought 
it  was  just  his  kindliness  but  Rue  knew  what  he  meant. 


THE  FATEFUL  HOUR  425 

Every  few  seconds  she  turned  around  to  look  at  the 
elderberry-bushes  and  the  grassy  lane. 

Yes,  there  was  a  faint  sound  of  some  one  parting  the 
bushes  and  stepping  on  the  crackly  twigs.  She  jumped  down 
from  her  chair. 

"Oh,  Grandfather,  She's  come!" 

There  stood  Danae,  like  an  apparition  between  the 
bushes,  the  folds  of  the  long  linen  cloak  straight  and  blue 
about  her,  and  the  scarlet  leaves  and  wild  flowers  wreathing 
her  hair.  She  had  not  forgotten  her  promise.  Her  face  was 
pale  with  emotion  and  uncertainty.  She  hardly  looked  an 
earthly  being,  more  like  one  of  Luini's  nymph-like 
saints. 

What  Danae  saw  at  the  first  unforgetable  glimpse  was  the 
dear  familiar  playground  of  her  girlhood  days  and  the  little 
group  of  loved  familiar  faces:  Aunt  Serena  in  the  same 
gown  she  had  worn  years  before,  with  her  hair  parted  in  the 
same  smooth  way.  But  her  father  looked  grayer  and  older. 
When  she  last  saw  him  the  white  lightning  of  anger  had  dis- 
torted his  features.  Now  his  cheeks  were  sunken  and  his 
eyes  profoundly  weary.  There  was  Frederick  Droll,  her 
old  lover.  How  came  he  to  be  there?  Uncle  Jupiter 
and  Mr.  Boscoway,  and  the  shaggy  peddler,  she  knew 
them  well.  But  little  black-haired  Justine  was  new  to 
her.  And  her  own  daughter  Rue,  running  to  meet  her 
with  outstretched  hands!  Danae  was  outside  of  them  all, 
outside  in  the  cold.  She  was  sick  with  the  sweetness  and 
the  dearness  and  the  unattainableness  of  that  heaven. 

All  this  must  have  been  in  her  face,  for  Rue's  heart 
burst  with  pity  and  foreboding. 


426  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"Grandfather,  you  are  glad  to  see  her?"  she  cried 
wildly,  seizing  her  mother  by  the  hand. 

All  rose  to  their  feet,  thrilled  by  this  great  arrival. 
Danae  stood  still  and  her  father  approached  her  slowly, 
slowly  as  if  his  feet  failed  him,  as  if  his  eyesight  was  grow- 
ing dim. 

"  Father,"  cried  Danae. 

Every  one  turned  aside,  every  one  of  that  little  group, 
with  hearts  too  reverent  for  look  or  speech.  The  shaggy 
peddler's  lips  moved,  and  Mr.  Boscoway's  fingers  combed 
the  gray-haired  horse's  mane. 

"Daughter,  I  have  sinned  and  repented,"  said  Dr. 
Penrith,  holding  out  both  arms  to  his  home-come  child. 

But  Danae  did  not  seem  to  hear  him,  for  she  dropped 
on  her  knees  and  caught  at  his  hand. 

"  Father,"  she  said  again, "  forgive  me  for  — her — sake ! " 

Rue  clung  closely  to  her  mother's  side,  with  her  little 
hand  wrapped  in  the  blue  cloak.  Dr.  Penrith  raised  Danae 
to  her  feet  and  folded  her  in  his  arms. 

"My  daughter!  my  daughter!" 

There  was  no  need  to  say  much  more,  but  after  a  while 
Danae  raised  her  head  from  her  father's  shoulder  and 
smiled  a  little.  Her  fluttering  hands  went  to  her  hair  and 
the  disarranged  wreath. 

"  You  didn't  think  I  was  silly  to  —  come  like  this  ? " 
she  questioned  in  the  old  girlish  Danae  way. 

It  was  not  till  then  that  the  heartstrings  were  wholly 
loosened  and  she  began  to  cry.  It  was  such  a  little  thing 
to  cry  about,  after  all,  a  wreath  of  flowers  and  scarlet 
leaves! 


CHOOSE  YOUR  TRUE  LOVE 

THE  impidence  of  the  cray ther,"  exclaimed  Ellen, 
albeit  with  wet  eyes,  as  she  flickered  from  the 
lunch  table  with  a  stiff  corner  of  her  apron  an 
aeronautic  spider  who  had  descended  upon  the  sugar-bowl. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  conversation.  Danae  shook 
hands  with  all  the  people. 

"  As  it  mought  be  jest  yisteddy  she  was  returning  from," 
said  Mr.  Boscoway  afterward,  in  recounting  the  day's 
experience  to  Mrs.  Gideon. 

It  must  not  be  thought  that  luncheon  was  the  only 
event.  There  was  other  diversion,  provided  as  it  chanced, 
by  Lillo.  It  was  not  known  what  had  been  planned  by 
Grandfather  and  Aunt  Serena.  Possibly  Grandfather 
had  in  mind  that  form  of  entertainment  known  as  loud 
reading,  when  one  person  sits  in  the  middle  discoursing 
from  a  large  book  ( Bacon's  Essays,  or  the  Sermons  of 
Bossuet ),  and  the  passive  recipients  in  an  attentive 
circle,  endeavor  to  keep  open  their  leaden-weighted  eye- 
lids. This  entertainment,  though  not  hilarious,  has  its 
informing  features.  Aunt  Serena  may  have  planned  a 
ripping-bee  or  a  raisin  party,  which  terms  require  ex- 
planation for  the  uninitiated.  A  ripping-bee  is  apt  to 
occur  when  Miss  Alvira  visits  Penrith  House  and  one 

427 


428  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

or  more  antique  garments  are  in  process  of  rehabilitation. 
Each  person  is  furnished  with  a  pair  of  scissors,  more  or 
less  blunt,  according  to  the  years  of  the  user,  and  zip-zip 
off  travels  a  ruffle  or  a  row  of  woolen  braid. 

Raisin  parties  precede  Thanksgiving  or  Christmas  and 
the  number  of  raisins  eaten  must  not  exceed  the  number 
of  stoned  raisins  in  a  bowl  that  are  the  result  of  one's  toil. 
When  Rue  pined  for  amusement  it  was  such  diverting 
occupations  that  Aunt  Serena's  practical  mind  was  ever 
ready  to  suggest.  It  was  some  years  before  Rue  was  able 
to  put  into  words  the  idea  long  latent  that  utilitarian 
gaieties  are  a  snare  and  a  delusion. 

It  was  Lillo  who,  not  long  after  Danae's  coming,  pro- 
posed that  they  all  play  Wild  Irishman.  This  intrepid 
suggestion  was  welcomed,  especially  as  it  gave  certain 
ones,  who  felt  a  little  "  trembly  round  the  lips  and  teary 
round  the  eyes,"  opportunity  to  recover  their  balance. 

Nobody  knew  the  game  and  therefore  Lillo  rose  to  a 
position  of  temporary  splendor  as  instructor  of  its  move- 
ments and  cabalistic  legend.  The  legend  —  (  to  be  chanted 
as  you  dance  round  and  round  in  a  circle )  —  runs  as 
follows : 

Heigh-ho  jim  along,  jim  along  josy, 

Jim  along  jo  ! 
Hitch  your  oxen  to  your  cart 
And  go  to  the  mitt  with  a  load  of  bark 
Heigh-ho  jim  along,  jim  along  josy, 

Jim  along  jo  I 

Certain  motions  correspond  with  certain  lines  of  the 
verse  and  there  are  times  when  somebody  outside  gets 


CHOOSE  YOUR  TRUE  LOVE  429 

in  or  somebody  inside  gets  out  —  it  is  a  little  difficult  to 
explain  —  and  then  every  once  in  a  while  somebody  is 
caught  and  kissed.  At  one  of  these  strategic  points  in 
the  game  the  somebody  was  Rue,  and  the  other  somebody 
was  Lillo.  A  kiss  like  this,  occurring  in  a  legitimate  yet 
unexpected  manner,  is  one  of  the  most  exciting  things  in 
the  world.  Like  a  billow  breaking  over  your  head  when 
you  are  surf-bathing  or  a  horse  jumping  a  fence  with  you, 
you  see  It  coming  and  It  takes  your  breath  away  and 
then  It's  all  over  before  you  know. 
Another  stanza  of  Wild  Irishman  is  as  follows: 

Happy  is  the  miller  who  lives  by  himself, 
As  the  wheel  turns  round  he  gains  on  his  wealth. 
Hand  in  the  hopper,  the  other  in  the  bag, 
When  the  wheel  turns  round  he  cries  out  GRAB. 
Heigh-ho  jim  along,  jim  along  josy, 
Jim  along  jo  ! 

Do  I  need  to  say  that  the  word  GRAB  marks  another 
of  those  delicious  strategic  points,  where,  if  you  are  not 
very  careful,  something  will  happen  again  ? 

To  the  carping  critic  who  may  inveigh  against  the 
irregular  scansion  of  this  ditty,  I  would  reply  that  as 
chanted  and  accompanied  by  the  rhythm  of  merry  feet, 
it  scans  perfectly.  As  for  the  rhymes,  perhaps  they  are 
not  letter  perfect,  but  could  you  do  better  yourself  ? 

Lillo  at  the  lunch  table  had  been  oppressed  by  the 
burden  of  his  own  good  manners,  but  perceptibly  revived 
during  the  prosecution  of  Wild  Irishman. 

Another  game  was  proposed  by  Mr.  Boscoway,  and 
as  the  accompanying  text  smacks  somewhat  of  his 


430  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

own    philosophy  and    cautious    utterance,    it    deserves 
quoting : 

The  needle's  eye 

Thai,  doth  so  ply, 
The  thread  that  runs  so  smoothly, 

Many  a  lass 

That  I  have  passed, 
But  now  I  love  you  truly. 

There  will  be  some  to  inveigh  against  the  syntax  of 
this  lyric  and  the  "  Jim  along  josy "  rondeau.  To  such  I 
would  say: 

"Leave  them  alone,  they  are  not  for  you." 
The  nameless  (  and  probably  composite  )  authors  of 
these  lyrics,  will,  like  Remy  de  Gourmont  and  Maeter- 
linck, appeal  only  to  souls  attuned  in  sympathy.  For 
her  part,  Rue  found  the  mystic  verses  heavy  with  mean- 
ing- 
Frederick  was  not  able  to  play  many  of  the  circular 
games  because  the  pirouetting  round  and  round  made 
things  go  black  before  his  eyes  and  the  cold  drops  stand 
out  on  his  forehead.  But  Danae  joined  in  all  the  sports 
and  became  latterly  a  leading  spirit. 

She  it  was  who  sang  so  loudly  and  so  sweetly  in  Copen- 
hagen. 

Come,  philanders,  let  us  be  a-marching, 
Every  one  your  true  love  a-searching. 
Choose  your  true  love  now  or  never 
And  be  sure  you  never  choose  another. 

When  Frederick  heard  this  lovely  verse  sung  by  Danae's 
voice  he  wanted  to  join  the  game.  They  let  him  be  the 


CHOOSE  YOUR  TRUE  LOVE  431 

middle  one.  So  there  he  stood,  all  the  others  dancing 
around  him  in  a  jubilant  ring.  Ellen,  her  skirts  cracking 
with  sprightliness;  the  shaggy  peddler's  sleigh-robe  beard 
nodding  in  the  breeze  made  by  himself;  Mr.  Bosco way's 
perverted  lock  taking  advantage  of  the  opportunity  to 
fall  back  into  its  natural  position  and  Justine's  satiny 
black  hair  shaking  up  and  down  like  a  Shetland  pony's 
mane. 

Copenhagen  was  the  last  game  of  the  afternoon.  It 
was  that  sweet  hour  when  the  shadows  stretch  out  to 
heroic  lengths,  when  the  thrushes  began  to  sing  from  the 
depths  of  the  Norway  pine,  when  the  wind  dies  down, 
and  the  reflections  in  the  river  have  a  charmed  stillness, 
when  an  amethyst  light  touches  the  tops  of  the  Twin 
Mountains.  Copenhagen  leaves  all  its  "philanders" 
happily  paired  off,  ready  to  march  away,  each  happy 
boy  with  his  sweetheart  on  his  arm  to  — whatever  may 
come  next.  At  Penrith  House  they  went  to  the  shady 
eastern  plaza  where  lemonade  and  cake  were  provided. 

Frederick  walked  by  Danae's  side  and  Justine  looked 
extremely  well  under  the  ample  shadow  of  Uncle  Jupiter's 
elbow. 

Frederick  and  Danae  had  a  great  deal  in  their  hearts 
to  say  to  each  other,  so  much  that  it  was  easier  to  say 
nothing.  Enough  for  Frederick  to  be  by  her  side  again, 
to  hear  the  faint  sound  of  her  skirts  on  the  grass  and  to 
get  the  faint  odor  of  her  hair.  There  was  only  one  love 
in  his  life  and  that  was  for  Danae.  It  was  the  sort  of  love 
that  shook  him  at  mention  of  her  name,  and  now  that 
after  many  years  he  saw  her  again,  there  was  no  abate- 


432  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

ment  of  love's  mastery.  There  had  never  been  an  abate- 
ment during  the  years  of  separation,  but  sometimes  the 
Face  re-seen  will  shatter  the  dream  of  years. 

"  How  are  you,  Frederick  ? "  asked  Danae,  turning 
toward  him  her  misty  eyes.  She  meant  to  inquire  after 
his  health,  the  simple  query  that  weighs  so  much  or  so 
little. 

"  I  am  the  same  —  the  same  —  to  you,  Danae,"  he 
answered,  not  wishing  at  all  to  be  dramatic  and  unaware 
of  the  light  in  his  eyes  and  the  sob  in  his  voice  that  made 
her  catch  her  breath,  for  Danae  knew  enough  of  real  love 
to  be  reverent  and  afraid  in  its  presence. 

All  night  long  in  her  sleep  Rue  was  performing  endless 
delightful  gyrations  and  singing  those  profound  words: 

Jim  along,  jim  along  josy, 
Jim  along  jo ! 

There  was  a  little,  round,  warm,  tingling  spot  in  her 
cheek  where  somebody  had  kissed  her. 

Reader,  did  you  ever  have  a  little,  round,  warm  spot 
like  that  on  your  cheek  ? 


LI 
THE  DOOR  IS  OPENED 

FATHER,  I  should  like  to  go  to  my  room,"  said 
Danae,  "just  to  see  it,"  she  added. 
"  May  I  go,  too  ?  "  said  Frederick,  very  low. 

"And  me  ?"  asked  Rue,  with  an  odd  little  surmise  that 
the  Silent  Door  was  about  to  be  opened. 

Grandfather  went  off  somewhere  and  came  back  with 
the  key,  that  key  which  had  been  locked  away,  nobody 
knew  where,  for  very  many  years.  The  little  procession 
mounted  slowly  to  the  third  floor  of  Penrith  House.  They 
descended  the  three  small  steps.  Grandfather  turned  the 
key  in  the  lock.  The  door  opened.  They  stood  in  the  room. 
There  were  three  windows  rather  high  up,  and  barred 
crosswise,  which  gave  the  room  a  medieval  air.  You 
had  to  stand  on  the  window  bench  in  order  to  see  out  of 
the  windows.  The  walls  were  irregular  and  steeply  slanted 
below  the  mansard  roof.  Aunt  Serena  pulled  a  cord  and 
away  flew  a  blue  shade,  discovering  a  skylight  in  the 
ceiling,  which  now  admitted  a  flood  of  late  afternoon 
light. 

Rue  looked  about  her  in  awe  and  excitement.  There 
was  a  bed  with  its  dimity  coverlet,  a  dressing-table  simi- 
larly draped  with  a  few  feminine  articles  scattered  on  it, 
and  an  old-fashioned  oaken  school-desk  like  the  one  in 

433 


434  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

the  West  Room.  On  the  lid  of  the  desk  was  a  pen  dipped 
in  an  ink  bottle,  long  since  gone  dry,  and  a  sheet  of  lilac 
note  paper  with  these  words  on  it,  in  Danae's  girlish  hand. 
"  Dear  Peter, 

«    T »J 

The  sheet  of  paper  and  the  pen  lay  as  if  abandoned  a 
moment  before  by  the  thoughtless  scribe. 

Danae's  lips  quivered  when  she  saw  the  words  on  the 
paper  and  she  crushed  the  sheet  quickly  in  her  hands. 

Over  the  back  of  a  wicker  chair  was  flung  a  cape  in 
a  style  of  long  ago,  and  a  pair  of  slippers  stood  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed.  Danae  turned  to  her  father  with  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Why,  Father,  it  looks  just  the  same  —  as  it  did." 

"No  one  has  touched  a  thing,  no  one  has  entered  the 
room  —  since  —  you  —  " 

She  kissed  him  tearfully  and  that  ended  the  sentence. 
Frederick,  unobserved  by  the  others,  dragged  a  fold  of 
the  old-fashioned  cape  passionately  to  his  lips.  At  least, 
he  would  kiss  something  that  she  had  once  worn.  There 
is  irresistible  lovableness  in  garments.  Rue  was  examining 
with  admiration  the  crocheted  slippers  and  fitting  them  to 
the  soles  of  her  feet. 

Danae  looked  upward  at  the  distorted  faces  of  her 
plaster  women,  cracked  and  yellow  with  age,  but  still 
decorative  below  the  ceiling. 

"Oh,  how  be-youtiful,  how  funny!"  laughed  Rue, 
looking  up  at  her  mother's  sculptural  designs. 

"You  never  scraped  them  off,  did  you,  Aunt  Serena  ?" 
Danae  was  touched  with  gratitude. 


THE  DOOR  IS  OPENED  435 

"  No,"  said  Aunt  Seren  i,  a  trifle  sadly,  "  I  thought  they 
might  as  well  stay  there.  No  one  ever  saw  them.1' 

"They're  not  so  bad,  after  all,"  exclaimed  Danae  a 
little  tenderly,  a  little  gaily. 

Rue  recognized  in  her  mother's  voice  the  note,  was  it  of 
creative  fondness  ? 

"  Oh,  Mother,  did  you  do  them  ?  I  think  they're  just 
bee-youtiful,  I  do,  Mother." 

Danae  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  sobbed 
happily  into  her  handkerchief.  It  was  not  to  hear  her 
plaster  women  praised,  but  to  have  her  little  girl  call  her 
mother. 

Frederick  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead.  His  eyes 
were  shut.  Rue  touched  him  lightly. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about,  Frederick?" 

"About  many   things." 

"  Dear  and  happy  things  ?  " 

"Yes,  dear  and  happy  things." 

"About  the  voyages  over  sea  you  have  taken  and  the 
far-away  lands  where  things  happen  ? " 

Frederick  opened  his  eyes  and  caught  an  unfeeling  image 
of  himself  in  Danae's  pretty  mirror  below  the  water- 
women.  How  ill  he  looked,  how  ugly,  how  spent!  He  folded 
Rue's  hand  in  his. 

"  I  believe  —  I  am  thinking  about  another  voyage,  Rue, 
that  I  shall  soon  take." 

Danae  heard  the  words  and  dropped  to  her  knee 
beside  him.  It  was  a  free,  impulsive  little  act,  but  no 
one  criticized  Danae  now.  She  put  her  head  against  his 
shoulder. 


436  THE  SILENT  DOOR 

"Poor  Frederick!"  she  said  softly.  Frederick's  other 
hand  rested  on  Danae's  golden  head. 

"  And  now/'  said  Grandfather,  in  his  mellow  would-be 
cheerful  voice,  "  had  we  not  better  all  repair  to  the  dining- 
room  ?  The  supper-bell  has  already  rung  twice." 

One  by  one,  they  went  out  of  Danae's  room.  Grand- 
father was  the  last  and  he  left  the  Silent  Door  standing 
open  behind  him. 

THE  END 


TH«    McCLCRB    PRESS,     NEW    YORK 


